Never Change
by hollycomb
Summary: Thirteen years after his high school girlfriend's pregnancy upended his life, Stan is still in South Park, working with his partner Bebe as a local cop. They're in the process of investigating a series of possibly connected murders when FBI agent Kyle Broflovski returns to town and informs his old friend Stan that this is his investigation now. (Stan/Kyle)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Here's my new chapter story! There will be ten chapters total, each relatively short like this one. The main pairing is Stan/Kyle, and as it's a story about a serial killer there will be some gory elements, though I will try not to overdo it. While it's not a major element in the story, at one point a character discusses a traumatic event from his childhood that was somewhat but not explicitly sexual, so bear that in mind if you try to avoid that sort of thing.

I hope you guys will enjoy this - please let me know if you have thoughts or questions along the way!

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><p>At two o'clock in the morning on a Friday night, three hours before his next shift, Stan was sleeping deeply and dreaming about Kyle Broflovski. It wasn't rare for him to dream about Kyle, though they had not seen each other or spoken in eleven years, and even in his dreams Stan's access to Kyle was always obscured somehow. In this case, he was in a charming bookstore in the early evening, browsing shelves that were illuminated by a candle-like glow, when he found a six volume biography of Kyle for sale. It was bound in pastel hardbacks and tucked into a box set, modest in length but expensively styled. Stan bought it, not minding that it cost eighty-eight dollars before tax, and was excited to read about what had become of his best friend. His cell phone woke him up before he could open the first book.<p>

It was Bebe, calling from the station.

"You'd better come in," she said. She sounded grave but not devastated, so Stan didn't ask if it was one of his kids, some bad news.

"What happened?"

"Wayne and his buddies got picked up by the rookie for underage drinking. I haven't called Lola yet."

"He's - is he okay?"

"He's fine. Not even drunk. A little surly."

Stan's heartbeat had launched into a painful hurtle at the sound of his son's name, but it was okay: it was only drinking, the kid being stupid with his friends; nobody had died. Then again: Wayne was still a baby and this seemed to be happening way too soon. He was still twelve, for fuck's sake, though he would have his thirteenth birthday in less than a week. Stan hadn't gotten him a gift yet. He was lost where Wayne was concerned, recently, and this news had already shoved him further off course.

"You want me to call his mom?" Bebe asked. "Or do you want the honors?"

"I'll, I should - no, you call her. I'd lose it on her. Where the hell is she while he's doing this? It's two in the morning and he's getting arrested? He's fucking twelve."

"Well. He's almost thirteen."

"Not yet. So what? What the fuck!"

"Alright, calm down. I'll call her."

Stan put his uniform on, confident that the shitstorm that was about to hit his life would keep him from returning home to change before the start of his shift. He was confident about little else as he climbed into his squad car, feeling shaky. He couldn't actually blame his ex-wife for this, not entirely. Wayne came from a broken home. This sort of thing happened to children when their parents divorced. Stan had started drinking at ten years old, and though he tried not to do it in front of his kids, not wanting to turn into Randy, he had slipped up once or twice since the divorce. Not drunk, not looking for a fight like his old man at the little league field, but he'd had beer in the fridge on weekends when the kids were over, and one night he lost track and drank four of them over the course of dinner and Netflix. Wayne had noticed this, maybe. Lola didn't drink. Even in high school, at parties, she had never been a drinker. Stan had found that very attractive about her, in the way that he'd tried to turn what he hated about himself into virtues that he laid on her shoulders.

Driving the streets of South Park at two-thirty in the morning was something Stan was very accustomed to, but tonight the stillness of the town felt off, maybe only because of his personal turmoil. It was early October and the late summer heat had been lingering uncomfortably, but the nights were starting to get cold. The streets were empty except for Stan's cruiser and one pickup truck that he passed near the entrance to his old neighborhood. A young couple with twin girls now lived in the house where Stan grew up. Sharon had moved up to Spokane after Randy died, to be near Shelly and her kids. Stan still felt a little bitter, driving by, though he didn't resent his mother for leaving, Shelly for needing her more or Randy for dying relatively young. It was a more of a general bitterness toward things that had been promised to him as a kid, things he had taken for granted. Most of those things had dematerialized as soon as Stan decided he wanted them.

Not that he was unhappy. Life had actually been a lot better since the divorce, fun again, but now Wayne was in jail and Stan was pretty sure it was his fault.

Bebe had Wayne at her desk when he got to the station, and Stan was annoyed to see that she'd bought him a danish from the machine near the old pay phones. Wayne gave Stan the same look he'd been getting pretty much nonstop for the past year: preemptively bored and irritated with hints of a strange new shyness, as if the divorce had transformed Stan into some kind of step-father.

"Is that coffee?" Stan said, indicating the styrofoam cup Wayne was sipping from while he stared up at Stan with that look. "You drink coffee now, too?"

"It was just beer," Wayne said. His voice hadn't really changed yet, but it was getting there, shifting in a subtle way that seemed menacing to Stan. "Paul is the one who wanted to drink them, I didn't even care."

"I shouldn't have given him coffee," Bebe said. "Without, uh. Asking you. Sorry."

"You're not hanging out with Paul anymore," Stan said.

"Yes, I am." Wayne scoffed and then looked sheepish, maybe because Bebe had witnessed his backtalk. He had no problem doling it out to Stan on a one-on-one basis lately.

"What do you want to drink for? You're bored? So what, play a video game, watch a movie, egg cars if you need some excitement. You're too young to be bored enough to drink."

Wayne had no response except to stare angrily into his coffee cup. Bebe sighed and stood up.

"Obviously they're not going to be charged," she said. "The rookie just brought them here so their parents could pick them up. He thought that would scare some sense into all parties." She snorted and smiled a little. "He didn't realize Wayne was yours until he was in the back of the squad car with his buddies. Rookie's face was white when he came in here and told me he'd picked up a Marsh."

"It's not like I'm his chief," Stan said, muttering. "How many others were there?"

"Two other boys. I'm surprised nobody ran."

"That's good." Stan looked at Wayne, who was turning red for some reason. "Hey. Look at me. That's good that you didn't run."

"We didn't think they'd arrest us since you're a cop."

"That's bullshit. You don't get special treatment because of my job. What's wrong with you?"

"Hey, okay," Bebe said when Stan's voice started to raise. He hadn't planned on yelling; he hadn't planned on being here at three AM and seeing his son at the booking table. He hadn't planned on having kids at all, but here he was.

"Sorry," Stan said, to Bebe. "Wayne, how did - I know your mother doesn't know you were out after midnight. You lied to her? You snuck out?"

"I was spending the night at Paul's. We went out to his backyard, and then Paul wanted to go to the woods so his parents wouldn't hear the cans opening."

"Classy, that's good. Well done, Paul. You're not friends with him anymore, I mean it."

"You can't tell me who I'm friends with."

"Like hell I can't." Stan pressed his lips together when he heard his voice rising again. He tried to imagine what Randy would have done in this situation. Probably not much; Stan was around Wayne's age when Randy started letting him have a beer during tailgates with Jimbo, as long as Sharon wasn't there to catch them. Stan had already been drinking in secret for years and had developed a tolerance that both Randy and Jimbo were impressed by.

"I'll get you some coffee," Bebe said when an uncomfortable silence began to stretch between father and son. Everyone else in the station had steered clear since Stan came in, but he could hear some snickering in the break room. They were probably ripping on the rookie for making such a bush league arrest and picking up Stan's son in the process. Stan didn't hold it against the kid, though if Wayne had gone to bed on the floor of Paul's room with a two-beer buzz and felt like shit in the morning, that might have been preferable to this.

"Dude," Stan said, squatting down to look Wayne in the eye. He was still seated, still staring down into his coffee cup like he wanted to hide in it. Stan took it from him, gently, and set it on Bebe's desk. Wayne looked up at him.

"Maybe we don't tell mom," he said, quietly.

"Ha, yeah, no. Bebe already called her."

"Shit."

"Don't - hey." Stan put his hand on Wayne's knee; for a moment he'd looked like he would cry. As if Lola's wrath was really something to fear; she was soft on both the kids, the kind of mother that Stan's had been, always wanting to sweep them under her wing. "Don't get mixed up with this shit already," Stan said when Wayne met his eyes. "Drinking is messy. It makes you stupid."

"So how come you do it?"

"When you're older you can handle it better."

"But why?"

"Here's the thing. It's against the law for you to drink alcohol. This is strike one for you. You want to be the kind of kid who gets strikes? Huh?"

Wayne rolled his eyes. Stan had lost him; he'd had him there for a minute, but he was too sleep-deprived and angry to come up with good lies about his reasons for drinking, as if he even knew what they were precisely. He rose and groaned, remembering that dream about Kyle. He felt embarrassed by it, though it wasn't like anybody knew he had dreamed of savoring six books full of Kyle information. It wasn't like he was going to tell Bebe, or Kenny, or anyone.

"It wasn't even my idea," Wayne said again, mumbling. "And Paul was just being stupid. He's not like that. He just thought it would be funny if we got drunk."

That seemed to pierce through Stan's stomach, anxiety flooding his chest. They didn't just want to drink some beer, they wanted to get drunk. It was Paul's idea, apparently, so there was no need to panic, but hearing that word on his son's lips seemed too nightmarish to be real.

"It's not funny," Stan said. "It's dangerous. Your brain is still developing, you can't just pour poison onto it and expect-"

"Did I say I would do it again? No!"

"Well, I can't exactly just take your word on things after tonight, can I?"

Stan regretted saying that instantly, because it felt untrue and Wayne's eyes changed when he heard it, as if Stan had pulled the rug out of from under him and not vice versa. Before Stan could backtrack he heard Lola asking the receptionist where they were. Evan came bounding into the station ahead of her, beaming as if her brother's arrest was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in months. Being that she was an eight-year-old girl who lived in a small town, it probably was. She was wearing a coat and her pair of sweater-looking boots over her pajamas.

"Daddy!" she said, and Stan allowed her to bound into his arms, though he felt like it would hurt Wayne's feelings. Around the same time that Wayne began to look at Stan with disdain, Evan decided he was a kind of celebrity-level perfect person, and she had been complaining about her time spent at Lola's house.

"Hey, pumpkin," Stan said when she hugged him hard, and he pressed some of her static-filled hair into place, wanting to believe that he still had more than a few years of her uncomplicated adoration ahead.

"What is this?" Lola asked, looking from Stan to Wayne as if they'd been caught drinking together in the woods. "Where are Paul's parents?"

"They took him home already," Wayne said.

"Are you going to press charges against them?" Lola asked, snapping her eyes to Stan's. She looked very tired, and she was hugging her over-sized sweater around herself as if it was a robe. "For letting children have access to alcohol?"

"Nobody's getting charged with anything," Stan said. "The boys snuck beers from the fridge during a sleepover. But I was telling Wayne, I don't want him at Paul's anymore. And Paul's not coming over to our place, either."

"Which place?" Wayne asked, glaring at both of them. "There's two now."

"You're grounded," Lola said. "At dad's house and at mine. For a month."

"I'm not even drunk!"

"Don't shout at your mother," Stan said, pierced again by that word. "That's not the point. You did something illegal. You're at the police station, you rode in the back of a cop car. You should be feeling ashamed and apologizing for waking us all up in the middle of the night, and instead you're giving us attitude."

Wayne turned away from them and glowered angrily at nothing, his hands in fists over his knees. Evan was still plastered to Stan's side, clinging to his arm.

"Is Wayne going in there?" she asked, pointing to the holding cell where a guy who tried to start a fight at Skeeter's during Stan's last shift was still sobering up.

"No," Lola said, pointedly, looking at Stan as if that was what he wanted. "This won't go on his record, will it?"

"Of course not, but it's protocol to bring them here so parents can retrieve them."

"They weren't even at Paul's house?"

"They went into the woods behind the neighborhood. Neighbors complained about kids being loud."

"That's not safe!" Lola said, speaking to Wayne again. "Three boys your age out at night in the woods? Are you insane?"

"What was going to happen?" Wayne muttered. "It's South Park."

"There are plenty of creeps in every town! Ask your father! Why do you think he has a job? Because there's crime here."

Wayne snorted. "Yeah, like. Graffiti on the side of the mall and people not picking up their dogs' poop."

Evan giggled. Stan was taken aback. He'd always assumed that Wayne thought his job was a little impressive, at least compared to his friends' fathers who worked at the CVS Pharmacy or in the lumberyard.

Lola took the kids home after some semi-excruciating begging from Evan to stay with her dad at the station. Her new thing was saying that wanted to be a cop when she grew up, like Stan and Bebe. It made Stan's stomach hurt to think about his daughter in the line of fire, though he was sure she would change her mind about her future career thirty times before she left for college, and then there was the chance that she'd end up hating him and everything he stood for like Wayne, who had once been Stan's best buddy.

"That was rough," Bebe said when they were gone, the sun still not up. "You want to hit the diner before our shift starts?"

"Yeah," Stan said, thinking of greasy bacon, fluffy pancakes, coffee that was slightly more decent than what they had at the station. It all sounded like the cure for his sudden emotional hangover.

The diner was the only South Park business other than Wall-Mart that was open twenty-four hours, seven days a week. It was out by the highway ramp, and mostly empty when Stan and Bebe got there shortly after four AM. They took their usual table and placed their usual orders.

"What the hell do I do now?" Stan asked, though Bebe had no kids and wasn't even married. She still gave good advice, most of the time. She'd been his best friend almost as long as she'd been his partner on the force, seven years.

"I think he'll be okay," Bebe said. "It's upsetting, but it's normal kid stuff."

"He's such a mystery to me all of a sudden. His birthday is in a week and I have no idea what to get him. He asked for cash. Jesus Christ. I'm not giving him cash."

"Why not? Kids love cash."

"What if he uses it to get someone to buy him beer?"

"Oh, god. After tonight I doubt he'll go near beer for another couple of years. He was pretty embarrassed."

"Embarrassed? He seemed brazen to me, and remorseless."

"He's just putting up a front for you."

"For me? I'm his fucking father!"

"Yeah, well, sons like to impress their fathers, right? Look, I don't know. Let's talk about something else until you calm down. How are the Kevins?"

"Ugh," Stan said. Since his divorce and his ensuing, long-delayed embrace of his bisexuality he'd been sleeping with two men who were both named Kevin, though Kevin McCormick was really more of a fuck buddy and Kevin Stoley-Donovan more of a secret affair that was barely worth the trouble. "They're fine. Same as ever."

"Is Clyde back in town?"

"No, he's still on his book tour. I think he's in Portland."

"I can't believe fucking Clyde Donovan is a nationally renowned author."

"It's not like he's writing novels, Bebe. His books are about a talking banana."

"But kids love them! Didn't he win some kind of award?"

"He didn't win, okay, he was just nominated."

"It was a big deal, though, wasn't it? What's it called, the Caldecott Medal or something?"

"I don't know," Stan muttered, though he did, and yes, it was. On the one hand, he hated himself for being the homewrecker who fucked Kevin while Clyde was off being celebrated for the 'authentically childlike wonder' with which he wrote and illustrated the adventures of a talking banana who cried too much, and on the other hand he loved that he was the guy who had infiltrated the seemingly perfect couple. Clyde and Kevin were junior high sweethearts who came out together and were fawned over by the girls for being best friends turned lovers, inseparable soul mates, and adorable hallway hand-holders all through high school. Stan took it all kind of personally, and when Kevin came onto him after a town council meeting last winter, while Clyde was in New York signing banana books, he jumped at the chance to prove to himself that there was no such thing as a real happy ending for boyhood best buddies who fell in love as teenagers.

"Are you freaking out about Wayne?" Bebe asked when Stan sat in silence for a while, staring down at his freshly delivered plate full of food.

"No," Stan said, and he almost blurted something about that dream, the idea of Kyle's life story in six accessible volumes. "I started drinking when I was ten," he said instead, and Bebe laughed.

"Wait," she said, frowning. "Seriously?"

"No - yeah, but. Never mind."

"Stan. Um, wow, well-"

The bell over the diner's front door rang, and Stan turned as if he was very eager to see who was coming in, glad for the excuse to break eye contact with Bebe. It was Kenny, wearing his too-big thrift store overcoat and grinning as he came toward them.

"Five-oh in the joint," he said, crowding into the booth beside Stan. Kenny was sort of enormous, six foot five and broad-chested. "Why's everyone look so grim? Who died?" Kenny rubbed his palms together, either cold or excited about the prospect of a local death. He was a mortician and ran the town's only funeral home.

"Wayne got picked up with his friends for underage drinking," Bebe said, and Stan blushed with gratitude, glad that she was letting that thing he'd said drop. Kenny was a good friend, too, but Stan didn't want to talk about it with him; he didn't even want to talk about it with Bebe, really, but concealing his urge to talk about Kyle had somehow unearthed that other old truth.

"Whoa," Kenny said. "Little man's growing up."

"It's not exactly a sign of maturity," Stan said.

"You know what I mean. Damn, he'll be thirteen soon. And you'll be thirty-one! Is that numerologically significant somehow?"

"Nothing is numerologically significant," Bebe said.

"Sure it is, like the golden birthday, remember? We all thought Wayne was going to be born when Stan turned nineteen on the nineteenth? Shame he came early, he probably would have been immortal or something if that due date was right."

"I screwed this whole thing up," Stan said, not wanting to think about his nineteenth birthday and the fact that it was thirteen years ago. "I should have just stayed with Lola until the kids left for college."

"No," Bebe said. "That's worse. That's what my parents did. It still sucks for everyone, believe me."

"Yeah, man, you've got to do you," Kenny said. "I'm really proud of your progress in that area, too. Though you could probably find some better characters to explore yourself with than my loser brother and Clyde's asshole husband."

"We were just talking about the Kevins," Bebe said, smiling. She loved this subject. She was less fond of the subject of her own love life, which sometimes involved Kenny.

"Clyde hasn't caught Kevin sending you incriminating dick pics yet?" Kenny asked, grinning.

"I don't want to talk about the Kevins." Stan did kind of wish he had someone to tell that he wasn't actually into Kevin Stoley-Donovan's dick, he was into Kevin McCormick's. The married Kevin, meanwhile, possessed the ass of interest.

"Alright, fine," Kenny said. "I've actually got some local gossip that's better than Stan's fabulous new gay love life."

"Ooh," Bebe said, hugging her coffee cup in her palms. "Tell us."

"Yeah, please," Stan said, ready to talk about anything other than himself.

"Rumor has it that the illustrious Leopold Stotch may return to town soon. His mom isn't doing so well."

"She's sick?" Bebe said.

"Off her meds again, I hear. Back to accusing the local businesses of being fronts for gay brothels."

"That's sad," Stan said. Linda Stotch had lost her grip on reality when Butters left for college and her husband subsequently left for Atlanta, where his long-term online boyfriend lived. Half the reason Stan wasn't out to anybody but his best friends and the men he was sleeping with was that he didn't want to be compared to Stephen Stotch, the current town title-holder for man who left his family to fuck dudes. It wasn't like Lola was on the verge of a nervous breakdown or had even been very sad to see him go, from a romantic standpoint, but her name even fucking _sounded_ like Linda's, which was just Stan's luck.

"Cartman will be happy if Butters comes back to town," Bebe said, and Kenny nodded sagely.

Stan wondered what people would say if Kyle came back to town. _Stan Marsh will sure be happy about that!_ It was irrelevant, anyway; Kyle's parents had moved back to New York after Ike finished high school.

"You really think Cartman still cares about Butters?" Stan asked.

"Hard to imagine Cartman actually caring about anything," Kenny said. "But he did love to mount dat ass back in the day."

"Are you sure?" Stan asked. "I mean, it's not like he's out." Cartman owned a Cadillac dealership and still lived with his mother, though he could afford his own place. In his demented view it was more convenient to stay with Liane, who still cooked his meals and laundered his clothes.

"Cartman has always been like Butters," Kenny said. "Sorta like an open bisexual secret."

"Then what am I?" Stan asked. "Do people call me an open bisexual secret?"

"Nah," Kenny said. "People will be surprised when you come out."

"God," Stan moaned. "Wayne most of all."

"Don't worry about that right now," Bebe said, and Stan saw her shoot Kenny a look. "You're allowed to take your time with telling your kids. It's a big deal."

Stan was in a funk by the time their shift started, and it didn't help that their first call, shortly after sunrise, was that Linda Stotch was demanding to be allowed into the Catholic church, which was currently being decorated for a wedding that would take place at noon. They apprehended the offending scorned woman without much difficulty or the need for restraints, and escorted Linda home to the tune of her ranting about the fact that the church's allowance of private bookings was evidence of homosexual corruption from the Vatican on down.

"What kind of asshole gets married at noon on a Saturday?" Stan grumbled as they backed out of Linda's driveway.

"Only the biggest assholes in town," Bebe said, smiling over at Stan.

Stan smiled back at her, glad that she understood the joke. He and Lola had been married at noon on a Saturday, thirteen years ago, in that very church. The noon booking was half the price of an evening ceremony. It had been the most terrifying surreal day of Stan's life, which had generally not been short on terrifyingly surreal days. He'd thrown up three times. Kyle also threw up, but only once, and he claimed it was entirely due to the fact that he had to watch Stan vomit, as if he hadn't seen a lot of that already, over the years.

"That thing you said earlier," Bebe said when they were parked near Deer Hill Road, clocking cars. "About drinking? Since you were ten?"

"I keep thinking about Kyle today," Stan blurted, because, as it turned out, he wanted to talk about that other admission even less. Bebe raised her eyebrows when he peeked at her.

"Kyle Broflovski?"

"No, Bebe, Kyle Schwartz."

"Who's Kyle Schwartz?"

"The other - I was being sarcastic, okay. Yes, Broflovski, that one."

"Okay," she said, slowly, as if preparing to diffuse a bomb. "In what context?"

"You and Kenny, talking about Butters coming back here. People still thinking Cartman would be happy about that."

"Kyle is coming back to South Park?" Bebe was openly incredulous.

"Of course not, why would he?"

Kyle worked for the FBI and lived a fabulous life of professional and personal success in Washington D.C., according to his Facebook, which Stan had last checked a year ago, shortly before he asked Bebe to block the site on his work and personal computers. The only reason he hadn't unblocked it was that he didn't know how to do so, and he wasn't quite self-destructive enough to actually research and find out.

Bebe sighed and put her hand on Stan's thigh.

"You've had a long day," she said, and Stan was relieved when their radio crackled on. It was a call from the station, asking them to check out the Evergreen Apartments out on Ridgewood. Building 5, Apt 512. According to the dispatcher, a neighbor had heard a woman scream and no one responded when he knocked on the door. Bebe put the siren on and drove like a maniac on the way there. She and Stan had a mutual tendency to respond ferociously to the suggestion of a woman in distress.

The days were already shortening, and it was starting to get dark when they pulled into the apartment building's lot. Bebe had shut the siren off one street ago, not wanting to alert the bad guys if they were still on the scene. Stan was hoping it was just a television left on, or a roach that had startled a woman who then didn't want to confront her neighbor's humiliating concern.

"Something's off," he said as they climbed to the second floor, where apartment 512 was located, Stan's hope that this was a harmless misunderstand plummeting. The air felt light in a dangerous way, and there was an unsettling quiet to the whole place, which had outdoor breezeways littered with pine straw.

"Yeah," Bebe said, her hand going to her gun. "I'll knock, you hang back out of sight."

"Yep."

Stan pressed his back to the wall beside the neighbor's curtained window and drew his gun while Bebe knocked.

"Park County Police Department," she shouted when there was no answer. "We received a call regarding this unit. Ma'am? Hello? May we come in?"

"Is it open?" Stan asked when there was no answer. Bebe sighed.

"We should call the station-"

"Bebe, what if he's still in there?" Stan asked, the bad feeling he'd had since they pulled up intensifying. Bebe winced a little and reached for the door knob. The worst case they'd dealt with so far was a few years back, a woman who'd been assaulted. Stan still thought about it a lot. He'd been driving when they got the call; he could have driven faster.

"Ma'am?" Bebe said when the door opened, unlocked. "Hello?" She pushed the door open with her elbow. "Furniture's knocked over," she said as she hurried inside with her gun drawn, Stan following in the same fashion.

What happened next seemed so dreamlike that Stan didn't feel the impact right away, though he knew that over the next few days, weeks, months, years, it would gradually press in past his skin and bones and never leave him. He had seen a dead body before, a homeless man who froze to death behind Wall-Mart on Christmas Eve, but this body was not like that body. This one was cut open in three places, bloody, white and stiff and posed on the couch as if it had been waiting for them.

"We've got a female homicide vic, looks to be mid-twenties, multiple stab wounds." Bebe was speaking into her radio, her voice shaking. Stan was still near the doorway, pinned there by the dead woman, unable to move because it seemed like doing so would somehow hurt her further. "Red hair," Bebe said, and she tried to clear the shake out of her voice. "No suspect on the scene and - ah, oh, shh-shit, I. I can ID the victim. That's Ruby, Ruby Tucker, oh. God, yeah, that's her."

Ruby's eyes were closed and her mouth was open. She was missing her tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So of course this chapter is double the length of the last one, despite my resolve to write shorter chapters, but I do have a good reason - I'll be out of town for a few weeks, so I wanted to post a significant update before I go. Let me know if you have thoughts or questions! Thanks for reading, and to everyone who left notes on the first chapter; I really appreciate the feedback.

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><p>On the morning of the press conference about Ruby Tucker's murder, Stan was lingering in Kevin Stoley's bed and staring at the ceiling as the sun came up. Though he was Kevin Stoley-Donovan in most contexts, Stan couldn't help but think of him as purely Kevin Stoley when they were alone together, the kid who had always been there in Stan's classes and yet virtually invisible to Stan until he became Clyde's boyfriend. Clyde was currently in California, and would be back in Colorado in two days. Kevin was snoring on the pillow beside Stan's, which he supposed was actually Clyde's, and Stan was beginning to wish that he'd visited the other Kevin last night. So far this one hadn't done much to quell his anxiety beyond letting Stan fuck him twice. Kevin McCormick tended to be more affectionate, but he also tended to expect to get his dick sucked and to smoke a bowl with Stan afterward, and Stan wasn't up for either of those things when he had a kind of panic attack last night and showed up here.<p>

"I have to go soon," Stan said, speaking to himself and still looking up at the ceiling. He had to prod Kevin's shoulder twice to get him to wake up. "I'd better get going," he said when Kevin blinked at him.

"God," Kevin said, and he rolled onto his back when Stan tried to nuzzle him. "What time is it?"

"Seven. The press conference is at nine."

"Why are you so fidgety about this? It's not like you have to speak. They probably won't even show you on camera."

"Oh, sorry, I guess I just discovered a brutally murdered woman two days ago or something, forgive me for being so sensitive."

"Jesus, come here," Kevin grumbled, and Stan only resisted minimally when Kevin sat up and attempted to pull him into a hug. Stan draped himself across Kevin's lap with resignation, his head on Kevin's thigh. Kevin was sighing as if it was too early for this, but he was also petting Stan's hair, and Stan needed this too much to be very annoyed about the attitude with which it was delivered.

"Her family will be there," Stan said, shivering. "I can't imagine. Their daughter - his sister. I haven't seen Craig since graduation."

"I'm sure he's still a snotty prick. But yeah, it's really fucked up. Oh, Stan, honey. You're shaking."

"It's cold in here. What have you got the heat on? Clyde can afford to heat this fucking place, can't he?"

"Poor thing," Kevin said, leaning down to kiss Stan's ear. "You're going to be okay. Aren't you? This isn't going to scare you off the force or something?"

"No." Stan sat up, insulted by that. "They're making us do counseling sessions, though. Three each."

"You and Bebe?"

"Yeah, me and Bebe, Kevin, the ones who found the body. Try to keep up."

"You're such a bastard to me all the time! And then you look at me like I kicked your dog when I return the favor."

"Don't fucking lay into me right now," Stan muttered, kicking the blankets away. He got out of bed and stood up, stretching his arms over his head. It really was pretty icy in the Stoley-Donovan manor, and the windows in the bedroom were fogged. "I'm gonna take a shower," Stan said, glumly anticipating the use of Clyde's shampoo and body wash.

"Maybe it's good," Kevin said. "You in therapy."

"Thanks for that."

"I'm not being mean! I'd love to see you, uh. Get something out of it."

Stan didn't want to go to therapy. He didn't think it would help with what he was going through currently and was afraid it might instead peel off old scabs and reopen other wounds. Last night, after coming twice in Kevin's ass and drinking half a bottle of white wine, he'd actually managed to sleep for the first time since they encountered the Ruby Tucker crime scene, but it wasn't a restful sleep. He'd awakened multiple times confused and not sure where he was, a sense that something in the darkness outside the bed was laughing at him, gloating. He didn't typically stay over at Kevin and Clyde's house.

Clyde and Kevin's shower was a theater-like marble deal with a fancy shower head and optional steam. Stan wanted to hide in the fog of the steam for at least an hour, but he kept his shower short, feeling the whole time as if he was trespassing. When he'd dried off he dressed in his uniform. He'd brought it with him the night before, not wanting to sleep alone. Kevin had seemed taken off guard but was ultimately understanding. He was wearing his robe now, yawning, and he came forward to rub Stan's biceps while he buttoned up his uniform shirt.

"Are you alright?" Kevin asked.

"Yeah. I don't know. I've got the kids this weekend, that'll be good. Don't want to be alone right now."

"Of course you don't. I'm sorry we can't go to a movie or something. And Clyde will be back Tuesday night-"

"I know, Kevin, I haven't forgotten the literary giant's schedule."

"Don't get angry. It's not as if you want me to leave him for you."

"That's-" Stan gave Kevin a wary look, edging toward apologetic. No, he didn't want that at all. Kevin snorted.

"Well, that's why this works. But you can call me if you get panicked like that again. Although, ah. Probably not best to stay for the whole night, you know. Where did you park your car?"

"Down the street. Relax. I know how to lay low, it's part of my job. Will you watch the press conference?" he asked, feeling sheepish and dumb for wanting him to. Kevin winced.

"Maybe," he said. "It's so awful. Do they have any suspects?"

"Watch the press conference and find out." They didn't. Stan kissed Kevin's forehead. "Thanks for last night," he said, mumbling. "You're- it's-"

"Don't mention it. I don't like to be alone either, especially if there's some murderer wandering around. God. Please catch him!"

"Or her."

"Probably him, though."

"Yeah, probably."

Most killers who took trophies from their victims were male. Many who did so were also serial killers, but the department's research hadn't turned up any nearby killings featuring a missing tongue. Nor had they come up with any enemies who might have wanted to harm Ruby. She was well-liked at the Bennigan's where she waitressed, and in her night classes at community college she attended in Fairplay. She was in the nursing program. Stan had seen so many pictures of her smiling and healthy over the past few days, but a million of those could never replace his now-default image of the woman: lifeless on her couch with her neck, chest and stomach sliced open, frozen in that silent scream.

It had gotten colder since Friday, but there was still no whiff of the first snow, which often came around Halloween. Thinking about how far off that was, Stan cursed on his way to his car, his shoulders raised against the cold. Tomorrow was Wayne's birthday. He hadn't forgotten, exactly, but the past few days had left him no time to get a gift. As he climbed into his car he considered stopping by an ATM later and withdrawing some cash, but he still hated the idea too much to actually do it. Cash was a gift from uncles and aunts, sometimes grandparents. Not actual parents, not yet.

The press conference was held at city hall, and there were a surprising amount of news vans parked out front, from stations all over the state. The chief had warned them that the violent death of a young white woman would quickly attract national attention, and to be prepared for the crush of interest. They hadn't released the information about the missing tongue, and didn't plan to unless it became important to the investigation. Stan had a bad feeling that it would.

"Oh, god," Stan said when he found Bebe inside, near the stage where the Chief would give his statement at nine o'clock. "There they are," Stan said, speaking low and trying not to stare at the Tucker family. They were seated in the front row: enormous Thomas, petite Julian and stoic Craig, who was seated between his parents and holding his mother's hand. She looked slightly catatonic, probably by the mercy of Valium or something stronger.

"Yeah," Bebe said, and she brought Stan over to the coffee station. "It's - I don't have siblings or kids, but that kind of grief, to lose someone violently, just. To know how scared they must have been, and that they never made it past that fear? I can't imagine how you'd bear that. You alright?"

"Me?" Stan accepted a coffee from her and went for the creamers. "Yeah, why?"

"You look a little tired is all."

"Well, yeah. Have you been sleeping?"

"Ambien, Stan, I told you. Every cop should have an emergency supply."

"I don't want to mess with that stuff," Stan said, muttering. He wasn't even sure what his reasons were, except that he normally turned to booze in a stressful situation, and it didn't mix with sleeping pills.

"I went by your place last night after dinner," Bebe said. "Didn't see your car."

"You're checking up on me?" Stan gave her an incredulous look, though he actually appreciated this. She rolled her eyes.

"Your house is on my way home."

"On your way home from where?"

"You first!" she said, swatting him. "Which Kevin was it last night?"

"Shhh!"

"Nobody's listening to us!"

"I don't want to talk about this here," Stan said, and Bebe nodded.

"You're right," she said. "Sorry."

"But you were out with someone?" Stan said, wondering if it was Kenny.

"Quiet," Bebe said, nodding to the stage. "It's about to start."

The Chief took the stage, and Stan tried to remember the last time he'd seen him in a suit and tie rather than a rumpled collar shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He mostly ran a casual station, in terms of appearances and atmosphere, but his temper had been shorter than normal in the days since the discovery of Ruby's body. Despite this, he had been handling Stan and Bebe very carefully since they radioed from the crime scene. Stan didn't like the special treatment, especially because he felt like he was more shaken by the whole thing than Bebe.

Stan tuned out most of the press conference, unable to stop looking at the Tucker family. He had never really been friends with Craig, but their class was so small that they'd often ended up at the same parties anyway. Craig had never dated and had always seemed bizarrely self-contained to Stan, who had the opposite constitution, all of him spilling out everywhere and especially in high school. Craig wore no wedding ring and stared blankly ahead during the entire press conference, still holding his mother's hand. His father was weeping intermittently and without making any noise, his fist pressed to his face.

"You mentioned that there are no suspects at this time," the first reporter who was called upon said. "Are there any persons of interest?"

"We are interviewing Ms. Tucker's co-workers and classmates, and I am not at liberty to disclose the results of those interviews at this time." The Chief seemed embarrassed, and Stan felt it, too. The last murder in South Park was before Stan's time on the force, the result of a domestic dispute and easily solvable. There were reporters here from Denver, and they had probably already decided that these small town hicks couldn't handle anything this serious. And they didn't even know about the tongue.

"Were there signs of forced entry?" another reporter asked, and Stan was surprised to realize he recognized her. She was Nicole Rutland, a girl who'd moved to South Park when Stan was a kid and who went to school with them until high school, when her parents switched her to a private school with a better reputation than Park County High.

"Based upon the evidence it would seem there was no forced entry," the Chief said.

"So it's likely that the victim knew her killer?" Nicole asked.

"I'm not comfortable making that assumption at this time. It's possible the door was left unlocked, or that Ms. Tucker was followed from her car and forced to allow her attacker inside under duress. We just don't know at this juncture."

"Were there signs of sexual assault?" Nicole asked.

"No, none. That's all we have time for, folks. Thank you for your questions."

"That's Nicole from school," Bebe whispered to Stan as the Chief exited the stage amid camera flashes and chatter from the reporters.

"I know," Stan said. "Did you two keep in touch?"

"A little bit, on Facebook. Look, um. We should say something to Craig before they leave."

"Shit. I know."

They hung back until the Tuckers had risen from their chairs and headed outside, and Bebe cut through the crowd toward Craig as he followed his parents toward the parking lot. Stan trailed behind her feeling shy and guilty, his stomach lurching at the thought of looking into Craig's eyes after being too slow to save his sister. According to the medical examiner, Ruby had been dead for less than half an hour by the time Stan and Bebe arrived, and still her killer slipped away unseen, leaving no prints or tracks behind.

"Craig," Bebe said, and he turned. His parents did, too, his father still wet-eyed and his mother's eyes focusing on nothing in particular.

"I'll be there in a minute," Craig said. His father nodded and resumed guiding Mrs. Tucker toward their car.

"Hey," Bebe said. "Jesus, I'm so sorry. We are," she amended, pulling Stan forward. Stan met Craig's eyes and nodded curtly, not wanting to pretend that they had ever been close, though he did want to hug Craig now.

"You found her," Craig said. "They told us. Officers Stevens and Marsh were first on the scene."

"Yeah," Bebe said. "We got a call-"

"I know, I read the whole report. Look, I'd like to talk to you two. Can we meet for a drink when you're off duty?"

"You want to talk-" Bebe glanced at Stan. "Like, off the record?"

"I don't have any useful information, so yes. I just like to. Know some things, I guess. Hear them from people rather than read them on paper."

"Of course," Bebe said. "Yeah, hey. Let's meet at Skeeters, eight o'clock. Does that work?"

"Perfect. See you then." Craig's eyes flicked to Stan's, and again Stan did that stupid little nod, feeling pathetic. Craig turned and left, and Bebe let out her breath.

"Is this a good idea?" she asked Stan, muttering.

"Probably not," Stan said. "But I feel like we owe him something."

"Yeah. Me too."

Stan was tense for the rest of the day, anticipating an evening spent with Craig and the memory of his dead sister. At least Bebe would be there. Stan had spent some time over the past few days feeling incredibly grateful that he hadn't discovered that body alone. Even in his nightmares about it, Bebe was always there with him.

"What the hell should I get Wayne for his birthday?" Stan asked as they were finishing up the day's paperwork: two parking violations, three speeders, one barking dog, and no missing tongues or murderers located.

"Hmm," Bebe said, looking up. "I thought he wanted cash?"

"He does, and yet I want to get him a more fatherly-type gift. Is that weird?"

"Nah. How's this: what did your dad get you for your thirteenth birthday?"

"I actually don't remember." He did remember drinking a beer with Randy in the kitchen after Sharon had gone to bed, and Kyle explaining that Stan wasn't a man in the eyes of the Jewish community just because he'd turned thirteen as a gentile.

"Well, there you go," Bebe said. "He won't remember when he's thirty-one, so don't sweat it too much. You could always get him a nice new coat for winter."

"He'd hate whatever I picked out. And he hates getting clothes as gifts."

"How about tickets to a Broncos game?"

"He won't watch football with me anymore."

"Aw, well. Gift certificates for stores at the mall?"

"That's the same as cash, isn't it?"

"Except that he can't buy beer with it!" Bebe said, grinning, and her face fell when she saw Stan's expression. "Sorry, too soon?"

"You're coming to the party, right?" Stan asked.

"Of course! I am his godmother, after all." Bebe had been friends with Lola first. Stan still got her in the divorce.

"So what did you get him?" Stan asked.

"Cash," Bebe said, grinning again.

"Ugh."

"And a card!"

Stan went home to change before meeting up with Bebe and Craig at the bar. He was anxious just being alone in his house, which seemed suddenly unsecured, and he wanted to call Lola every hour or so to make sure the kids were safe and fully in view. He put on one of his nicer shirts and even put some styling product in his hair, a tube of cream that made his hair look shiny, pushed on him by a hairdresser three years ago. It had a faint lavender scent that he found comforting. He drove his truck to the bar, sort of wishing he was in uniform and driving the squad car. It seemed irresponsible not to constantly be in cop-mode until the killer was found and imprisoned. He had his gun belted on, anyway, hidden under his coat. He usually had a self-imposed policy of not carrying when he was drinking, but he wasn't planning on indulging much in Craig's presence.

Skeeter's was typically pretty quiet, but tonight it was packed, loud, and Stan recognized a few of the out of town reporters who had attended the press conference. He passed several discussions about the Ruby Tucker murder as he made his way toward the bar, where Bebe was tolerating the attentions of Eric Cartman, who was smiling the same sharky grin he always had on when he was drunk. He was balding and pushing two-eighty, though his driver's license still said two-fifty. Stan had noticed this the last time he pulled Cartman over for DUI.

"You're here," Bebe said, shooting Stan an irritated look, though he wasn't exactly late. Bebe was wearing a tight black dress and tall black boots, her coat folded over her lap. Cartman was in his usual car salesman suit and tie. He was only leaning on the bar stool beside Bebe's, probably because it wouldn't support the full load of his fat ass.

"Marsh," Cartman said. "We were just talking about you."

"No, we weren't," Bebe said, frowning. "Eric, get lost. And if you come near us when we're talking to Craig I'll be sure to knee you in the balls the next time we have to bring you in."

"What the hell is this hostility?" Cartman asked, appealing to Stan and gesturing to Bebe with his Bud Light. "This is why you can't have women carrying loaded weapons, man. Period feelings come into play and it's like, bam. Loose cannon."

"Get the hell out of here," Stan said, and Cartman sneered but obeyed, stumbling back to a table crowded with the guys he employed at the dealership, who could usually be counted on not to let Cartman drive himself home at the end of the night. "Sorry," Stan said as he took the seat beside Bebe. "Should we get a table?"

"I wanted to, but they're all full. Maybe this isn't the best place to talk."

"Anyway," Stan said, nodding to the door as Craig entered, looking stoic and wearing a fine-looking ivory scarf that set him apart from the locals. "There he is."

Bebe waved Craig over, and Stan moved down to give him a seat between him and Bebe. It took a while to get the bartender's attention, but Bebe had more success than most, and soon they had their drinks: beer for Stan and Bebe and a gin and tonic for Craig.

"Sorry it's so loud," Bebe said. "We could go outside."

"It's fine," Craig said. He took a sip from his drink and looked over at Stan, then at Bebe, before staring down at the glass. "We weren't close," he said. "Me and my sister."

"Oh," Bebe said. "Well-"

"Which is not to say that I'm not devastated. I'm angry. When I first started reading the report, I got the impression that her murder seemed impersonal, random. Did you get that feeling at the scene?"

"Mhmm, not really," Bebe said. "It was. Ah. So violent."

"Well, yes, but she was clothed." Craig drank again, taking two gulps this time. "And not violated in any - way. That was a relief." He glanced over at Stan as if wanting confirmation, and Stan nodded.

"I'm sure, yeah-" Stan said, turning his beer in his hand; he still hadn't sipped from it. "I hope your parents took some comfort in that, as ridiculous as that probably sounds."

"It doesn't sound ridiculous. Ruby had been to her shift the night before, and to class that morning. The call to the police about a scream was placed at 5:15 in the evening, and she's said to have bled out ten minutes later. Ten minutes of suffering is horrible to think about, but it's not hours. It's not days. And the tongue was removed posthumously."

"Oh, god," Bebe said. "You know about. That."

"Of course, I told you, I read the report. Do you think she knew something, someone's secret, and they killed her to shut her up? The removal of the tongue seems pointed. It sends a message."

"Maybe," Stan said. He tried to give Bebe a wary glance, but she was staring fretfully at her beer bottle. "It's one thing the lead detective was discussing."

"Who is the lead detective?"

"His name is Joel, a guy in his early fifties. He's good, I think, um. We don't see a lot of cases like this, obviously."

"Obviously. Don't take this too personally, but do you think your department is up for the job? Do you think this person will be caught?"

"Yes," Bebe said, quickly. Stan was surprised by her confidence; she seemed to mean it. "I speak for the whole department when I tell you we are not going to let this go. You know what it's like here, how tight-knit the community is. Ruby was part of our family, too, in a way. I remember her as a little girl. In the Christmas pageant, the year she played the star at the top of the tree?"

"Jesus," Craig muttered. He finished his drink and nodded, staring into space.

"Bebe's right," Stan said. "We will figure this out."

"But the killer left no evidence on the scene," Craig said. "It said so in the report. Which suggests that this was planned carefully by someone intelligent."

"We're taking that into account," Bebe said, nodding. "We interviewed your mother briefly, and after the funeral, after she's dealt with the initial shock a bit more, we're going to talk to her again, and your dad, too. All of Ruby's friends. I think the killer did leave one big piece of evidence: the tongue. It means something that's intended to be interpreted, I think you're right. It's frightening, too, because it's the kind of move a serial killer makes."

"But I doubt it's that," Stan said, not wanting to think about a serial killer lurking amid the tight-knit South Park 'family.' "They rarely work in small towns. It's not smart."

"The killer could be moving through a series of small towns," Craig said.

"Exactly," Bebe said. "We'll be keeping an eye on reports of murders across the nation, you can count on that. Looking for any kind of similarities in the staging of the murder."

"The staging," Craig muttered, tilting the ice in his glass.

"Sorry," Bebe said. She touched Craig's shoulder and Stan saw him flinch, but only a little. "The funeral is on Wednesday, I heard?"

"That's right."

"Can I get you another?" Bebe asked. "It's on us."

"I actually need to leave," Craig said. "Talking like this. It's not easy for me."

Stan had actually been surprised by the seeming ease with which Craig discussed the facts of his sister's death, but Craig was always hard for him to read. Bebe walked him out to his car while Stan lingered to pay the tab. He took his first sip of beer and stared up at the Monday night football game on the bar's single television. The Ravens were leading the Saints in the second quarter. Stan hadn't watched much football since Randy died, and an empty feeling still settled heavy in his chest when he did. Watching with Wayne had helped, back when he was willing.

Stan heard a shout from behind him and turned to see Cartman arguing with one of his dealership buddies. It took Stan less than five seconds to discern the cause for the argument: the guy wanted to drive Cartman home and Cartman wanted to drink more before getting behind the wheel himself.

"Should I call the station?" Skeeter asked when he arrived with Stan's debit card and a receipt to sign. "Or do you want to handle this on a pro bono basis?"

"I'll deal with it," Stan said. He drank some more beer before leaving it half empty on the bar. Cartman had been banned from Skeeter's once before, but it didn't last long. Like most bartenders, Skeeter was a forgiving sort.

"You work for me, motherfucker," Cartman was saying to the exhausted-looking guy who was trying to help him into his coat. "Have you forgotten that? Huh? Who d'ya think signs your paychecks, the fucking tooth fairy?"

"Eric," Stan said sharply. "Lay off. Skeeter wants you out and I'm escorting you home, lucky me."

"Pfff," Cartman said, turning toward Stan with an unsteady wobble. "Fuck Skeeter."

"I can get the handcuffs out of my truck if I need to."

"Ooh, kinky!" Cartman cackled at his own stupid joke, looking around at his employees, who laughed nervously as they shrugged their coats on. They were essentially paid not only to sell cars but to be Cartman's friends. "Marsh wants to cuff me for being a grown man who has a few beers after work."

"Looks to me like you had a few scotches, too," Stan said. He took Cartman's coat and put it over his arm, grabbing Cartman's flabby bicep with his free hand. "C'mon, we're out of here, unless you want to sober up in the drunk tank at the station."

Cartman grumbled a lot but allowed Stan to walk him out of the bar. They ran into Bebe as she was coming back in, and she only looked surprised for a moment.

"Jesus, Eric," she said. "It's Stan's night off."

"It's fine," Stan said. "I'm not really feeling it tonight, anyway."

"Understandable," Bebe said, wilting. "You want company getting him home?"

"Nah, you enjoy the rest of the evening. See you tomorrow on shift."

Cartman made a few worrying noises as they pulled out of the parking lot of Skeeter's, but he settled in against the passenger door of Stan's truck without actually puking. He began to study Stan in a distracting, disparaging way, his lip partially raised.

"Marsh," Cartman said, and he scoffed as if the name itself was embarrassing.

"How about you put your seat belt on?" Stan said.

"How about you suck my cock?" Cartman grinned when Stan looked over at him, the backs of his ears getting hot with rage. "I've heard you like that sort of thing," Cartman said.

"Huh." Stan looked out at the road, trying to keep his face impassive. "Where'd you hear that, exactly?"

"Oh, just, _around_. And anyway, I could always tell, by the way you sniffed at Broflovski's crotch in high school. Whatever happened to that faggy little Jew, anyway?"

"You want to get dumped on the side of the road?" Stan barked, his heart slamming now. They were on the rural stretch of two-lane highway between Skeeter's and the center of town, and it would freeze tonight; Stan could smell it. Cartman just giggled drunkenly. He knew Stan wouldn't do it.

"Sorry, sorry," Cartman said, openly insincere. "I forgot how sensitive you are about that ginger fuck. I'm seriously, though, what became of him? He gay married yet or what?"

"I don't know. We don't keep in touch."

"Aww, what a tragedy. Hey, speaking of tragedies. You guys gonna catch this woman killer or what? My mom's real freaked out."

"We plan to catch him, yeah."

"Him? So sure it's a man? Could be some psycho lesbo friend who was in love with her."

"Thanks for your input, very astute."

"Why, you're welcome! You assholes should consult with me more often. I am a little psychic, as you'll recall."

"Mhm, no, I think that was Kyle."

Stan knew instantly that he shouldn't have said Kyle's name, thereby reopening the subject. His ears were really burning now, and his throat felt a little tight. He could practically hear Cartman's shit-eating grin.

"That's a real shame, you and Jew boy not being friends anymore. I guess he didn't take too kindly to you knocking up your other girlfriend with a teen pregnancy, huh?"

"You were always obsessed with him," Stan said, and Cartman was too drunk to keep from sputtering in surprise when he heard this.

"Me? Huh? I was? Look who's talking! You were the fucking president and founder of the Lick Kyle's Balls foundation, okay, it was embarrassing."

"He was my friend. You were something else. Hey, speaking of high school and crotch sniffing, I heard Butters might be back in town soon."

This seemed to take more wind from Cartman's sails, which Stan enjoyed until Cartman's lip started shaking.

"Oh, Christ," Stan groaned. "Don't cry."

"I'm not - fucking, shut up, I'm not crying! You. I - where'd you hear that? When's he coming?"

"I don't know, I just heard he needs to deal with his mother."

Cartman was quiet for a while, staring out the window and doing a poor job of pretending not to be emotional. His drunkenness typically went through three stages: joyous and goofy, loud and abusive, and finally came the weeping. Witnessing this reminded Stan of his father when he was at his worst.

"Who do you think did it?" Cartman asked while he was still staring out the window, and something about hearing that question in Cartman's croaky, slurring voice made the hair on the back of Stan's neck stand up.

"Ruby?"

"Yeah, Ruby. It's a small town, and they put up those road blocks near the highway after you found her. It's either a drifter who's still hiding out here or one of us. Somebody we know."

"Not necessarily-"

"I heard someone saying there's homeless people living in the old geneticist's lab up in the mountains. Bums, burnouts, dangerous folk. You and your fellow badge monkeys outta check that out."

"We've heard those rumors hundreds of times. We do routines checks up there and we've never-"

"I'm just saying, the woods are vast and thick and they're all around us, here."

Stan looked at Cartman, and regretted it when he saw that Cartman was looking at him, too. He had a wild, half-awake sort of drift in his eyes, as if he was sleep-walking, and his bloated cheeks were rosy in a disturbingly child-like way.

"You sound like you're quoting Lord of the Rings," Stan said. Cartman turned back to the window.

"Maybe I am," he said, mumbling. "I don't fucking know. Jesus, I fucked up. I fucked up real bad, Stan."

"How so?" Stan asked, alarmed. Cartman said nothing, and then he was snoring, his mouth leaving a foggy wet mark on the truck's window.

Stan walked Cartman to his front door and dumped him into Liane's arms. He went back to his truck feeling rattled. He shouldn't have attempted to talk about Kyle with anyone, let alone that asshole, and Cartman had become so strange and sad, a kind of garish flower that had rotted in its pot, never transplanted elsewhere. Stan drove home slowly, watching the roadside for suspicious characters. All he saw were a few deer, their eyes glowing from the darkness near the edge of the woods.

The following day was Wayne's thirteenth birthday, and Stan woke up feeling bereft. When they all lived together, he always made a special breakfast on the kids' birthdays, more or less whatever they wanted. One year Wayne wanted chocolate chip waffles with chocolate ice cream, and Stan made it happen. For her sixth birthday, Evan had wanted to eat an entire tub of cake frosting with a spoon, and Lola drew the line there.

Stan ate oatmeal alone at the kitchen table, then headed to Target, desperate to find something for Wayne that wasn't just a wad of cash or an equally impersonal gift card. He'd already contributed money to the new iPad Lola had purchased and wrapped for Wayne, and though it was a joint present Stan also wanted to get his son some kind of token to welcome him to teenagehood, a little something that would make him feel special and loved, even if he grimaced at it in the presence of his friends.

Target did not seem to be the place to find such things. Everything was glossy and fake, soulless. Stan tried the mall next, browsing expensive and flashy toys and feeling increasingly depressed. Finally, he found a small wooden box at a home decor boutique. He paid fifty dollars for it, which was ridiculous, but it had an octopus carved on the lid. Wayne had loved octopi as a boy. For an elementary school civics project he wrote a presentation on why octopus should be banned from the menus of South Park restaurants: because they were smart, essentially. Only City Sushi and one tapas place had ever served octopus in South Park, and though City Sushi wasn't moved by Wayne's essay, the tapas place did go out of business a few months later, probably for unrelated reasons. Stan had been really proud of Wayne for caring about animal welfare, and he had showered him in octopus-related gifts ever since. He was aware that this box probably wouldn't go over well, but he put an old picture of him and Wayne inside it anyway, hoping that he might appreciate this later, in a moment of private reflection, or perhaps in hindsight when he was thirty.

The picture Stan chose was of the two of them at the ranch outside of town. Wayne was five years old and seated on a horse, smiling widely. Stan was beaming, too, his arm around Wayne's waist as he stood beside the horse, steadying it and posing for Lola's camera. That was the year when Lola was pregnant with Evan, and they had all been happy. Stan had assumed that the feeling he had that day, warm under the late summer sun and content to be with his family, was one of finally settling into a comfortable if imperfect adult life. He was preparing to graduate from the police academy, looking forward to having a daughter and generally wanting for nothing that day. It was a couple of years after Evan was born when that feeling seemed to return much less often, and Stan felt as if he was always in a disorienting state of wanting both everything and nothing, working his way back toward the depression that descended at age ten. He kissed the octopus box when the picture was closed inside it, saying a mental prayer for Wayne. He never wanted his kids to know that empty feeling, and needed to believe that Wayne had tried beer just to impress his friends, not because he wanted an escape from his own exhausting mind.

The party was a small thing they did every year for family and a few of Wayne's friends, homemade cake and a barbecue in the backyard after the kids got out of school. Stan had the whole day off, and he showed up early to help Lola with the cooking. She sighed and put her arms around him when he came to the door, and he hugged her back with enthusiasm, greedy for human contact and feeling nostalgic about their old life together. Lola had suggested their separation, but it hadn't exactly felt like it was her idea.

"You okay?" she asked quietly, lingering in the doorway.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Saw Craig last night and talked to him a little. That was weird."

"Oh, god, yeah, I'd heard he was in town. How's he holding up?"

"He seems shaken, but I guess they weren't close. I felt so guilty, just looking at him."

"Stan." Lola shook her head. "I always worried about you and this job. You take everything to heart. And now this."

"I got him a gift," Stan said, not wanting to talk about that here. He could hear Wayne arguing with Evan in the living room, something about the TV. He passed the wrapped octopus box to Lola. "Just a little thing. He won't like it."

"He will," she said, though she didn't know what it was. "He misses you," she said, speaking quietly again.

"I miss him." Stan swallowed and shrugged. "Need help with the meat?"

"I've learned how to grill hamburgers in your absence," Lola said, but she allowed him to take over while she finished the other preparations. Stan was elated when Wayne came out to stand beside him and survey the burgers, and he tried not to show it too obnoxiously, giving him a one-armed hug while working the spatula with his other hand.

"You got me an octopus box," Wayne said, keeping his eyes on the grill.

"Aw, you opened it already?"

"Mom didn't say I had to wait. Sorry. I mean. It's cool, thanks."

"Seriously?" Stan tried to scale back his shock, grinning. "Yeah, um. I know you like them. Octopuses. Remember your octopus petition?"

"God, that was so embarrassing. Why'd you guys let me do that?"

"It was for school, and it was sweet." Stan realized he'd picked the wrong adjective. Wayne grunted and returned to the house, where Stan could hear Jimbo and Ned arriving, Jimbo greeting everyone at high volume as usual.

The party was in full swing half an hour later, and Stan was relieved when Bebe arrived, rescuing him from an uncomfortable conversation with Jimbo about the murder investigation and whether single women should be legally required to own firearms for protection. Kenny walked in with Bebe, which was interesting. He had been invited independently, but they seemed to have come together.

"Look, it's your godparents!" Kenny said as he gave Wayne a couple of back slaps, refraining from a hug because Wayne's slouching friends were present. Paul was not among them. They were playing video games in the center of the living room, Wayne occasionally pausing to receive his guests.

"Thanks," Wayne said, accepting his money-stuffed card from Bebe and some violent-looking video game from Kenny. "Oh, awesome," he said, examining the game. "Can we play this now?"

He seemed to be asking Stan, who shook his head and drank from the beer he'd been carrying around.

"Your grandma would freak if severed limbs started bouncing around the screen the next time she walks through here."

Stan was referring to Lola's mother. Sharon would visit at Thanksgiving, but she wasn't making the trip down for Wayne and Stan's birthdays this year. Airfares had gotten too expensive.

"Speaking of severed things," Kenny said as Stan led him and Bebe to the bar area. "Any developments on Craig's sister?"

"No. I take it you're doing the funeral?"

"Yeah, and they want a viewing, but it shouldn't be too tricky. No real facial damage, weirdly. Despite the tongue."

"Let's not talk about it here," Bebe said. "People don't know about the tongue," she said, more quietly.

"Rumor's getting around, actually," Kenny said, and he held up his hands when she boggled at him. "It's not me! I don't know who's talking. Maybe the family."

"Bebe's right," Stan said, feeling queasy. "Let's talk about something else."

"Such as?" Kenny said. "It's all I can think about. Karen was friends with her, growing up. I knew her, man. Who did this?"

"We're working on it," Bebe said, tightly, and Stan wasn't sure if the look that passed between them betrayed the intimacy of having recently slept together or the other, older familiarly of having slept together quite a few times in the past.

"What's with you two?" Stan asked when Kenny wandered off to say hello to Jimbo.

"Huh?" Bebe said. She glanced at Kenny. "Nothing - what?"

"I thought you came together."

"I'm his designated driver," Bebe said. She rolled her eyes. "He smoked with his brother before he came."

"Oh, lovely." Stan was kind of jealous, actually. It had been a while since he had a Kevin McCormick evening, which generally involved adopting Kevin's happily shiftless attitude toward life, at least for a few hours.

"How was it with getting Cartman home last night?" Bebe asked. "Thanks for taking that bullet."

"It was fine. Actually, weird. He said something really weird about - the woods? And he said he fucked up."

"Well, yeah, his whole life is one fuck up after another. Was Liane home?"

Stan nodded and let the subject drop. He supposed his lingering anxiety about talking with Cartman had more to do with his taunts about Kyle than anything else.

Aside from enduring his former mother-in-law's occasional cold stares, Stan was enjoying himself at the party, his mood buoyed by Wayne saying the octopus box was cool. Wayne mostly hung out with his friends while Stan spent time with Evan, who asked him several uncomfortable questions about the murder and hugged him a lot, in a worried sort of way, as if he had narrowly escaped death himself.

"If you find the guy," she said when they were sitting on the back porch together, watching the last of the sunset, "Will you have to kill him?"

"No," Stan said, though he supposed that was possible. He had threatened a few times, but had never actually fired at anyone in the line of duty. "He'd be arrested. Not killed. Everyone gets to have a trial."

"Even if they _killed_ a girl?" Evan said.

"Yeah, even then, because the lawyers have to prove the cops arrested the right guy."

"But what if he had a knife, Dad?"

"What - huh?"

"When you found him, the bad guy. If he had a knife, and he slashed it at you, would you kill him then?"

"Ev, no - it wouldn't work that way."

Stan remained perturbed by this conversation as they gathered around the cake, darkness falling outside while Lola lit thirteen candles. Wayne was sighing like he was too old for this but not actively retreating. Kenny was laughing under his breath and Bebe seemed annoyed. Just as Lola told the group it was time to sing the birthday song, Bebe's phone went off. Half a second later, Stan's did, too. They looked at each other over the cake: simultaneous calls had never been a good sign in the past, and Stan wasn't surprised to see that it was the station calling when he pulled his phone out.

"Sorry," he said when Lola gave him a look. "I have to-"

"Maybe they caught the murderer!" Wayne's friend Trent shouted.

"Lieutenant Marsh," Stan said when he answered.

"This is dispatch requesting assistance at a residence at the corner of Trenton Avenue and Vine Street. Residence is number 745 on Vine. Sorry, Stan. I know you're off duty, but it's - they need you and Bebe on the scene."

"Me and-"

"It's a homicide. Chief needs you on the scene ASAP to note any similarities to the murder you guys called in on Friday."

"Jesus. Okay, yeah. On our way." He hung up and looked at Bebe, who nodded.

"What is it?" Wayne asked. He looked scared, but maybe Stan was only projecting. He'd forgotten to ask who the victim was. It was unlikely that it would be a complete stranger.

"We got called to duty," Bebe said. "An emergency, sorry, we have to go now."

"Is it another murder?" Jimbo asked, bellowing this.

"Whoa!" Trent said. "Really?"

"We'll fill you in as soon as we can," Stan said, grabbing his coat from the back of a kitchen chair. "Sorry, buddy," he said to Wayne, who shrugged.

"It doesn't matter," he said, and Stan left the house with a sense of dread so enormous that he felt like there wasn't enough oxygen in the air outside. It did matter: something was very wrong in South Park.

"Well, fuck," Bebe said. "Want me to drive?"

"Yeah, I had two beers." Stan felt completely sober, despite this, but too shaky to get behind the wheel. "Did dispatch tell you who the vic was?"

"Male, mid-twenties. That was all I got."

By the time they got to Trenton and Vine, Stan's stomach was pinched so tightly that it felt like it had folded in half. The whole block was flooded with parked squad cars, and there was a coroner's van parked in the driveway of number 745. Stan and Bebe had their Park County coats on, but Stan didn't even have his gun. He supposed he wouldn't need it.

"Oh shit," Bebe said as she parked. "What. Why are there kids?"

Stan saw what she was referring to as he climbed out of the car, his pinched stomach cramping up tighter. Out in front of the house there was a woman talking to the grief counselor the Park County station shared with the Fairplay PD, and there were two blond kids clutched to her sides, one boy and one girl. Stan felt the color drain from his face when he recognized them from somewhere. He couldn't place their names, but he definitely knew these people from around town. The Chief spotted him and Bebe and waved them toward the front door of the house, where he was standing with a medical examiner. Stan's vision tunnelled as he moved toward the crime scene, and he imagined Ruby's corpse waiting for him inside before reminding himself that this one could be worse.

"David Harrison," the Chief said when Bebe and Stan arrived. "Killed in the same manner as the Tucker girl. Wife picked up the kids from school, stopped by the grocery store on their way home, walked in to find this."

"Jesus," Bebe said.

"Harrison," Stan said, steadying himself on the iron railing that lined the front steps. "That's. One of the Mormon kids? Gary's brother?"

"Don't know," the Chief said, but Stan did, then: he was sure. Gary didn't live in South Park anymore, but his parents and some siblings still did, David included. Stan looked into the house, realizing that he was about to confront the fact that David no longer lived here. He'd died here.

"Gary," Stan said, not speaking to anyone present. "He'll be-"

"Have they found any evidence inside yet?" Bebe asked. She sounded angry, and Stan knew he needed to channel his anger, too, if he was going to get through this.

"Not yet," the Chief said. "They're taking photos now, but I wanted to have you two put your eyes on the scene before the coroner takes the body. I know it's not easy, but really take your time. I need you to report absolutely every detail that's similar, no matter how small it seems. Marsh, you going to be sick?"

"What?" Stan gripped the railing more tightly, putting shoulders back. "No, sir."

"You're a little green," Bebe said. "He knows the victim's brother," she said, to the Chief. "They're friends."

"I'm fine," Stan said, already wondering if he should be the one to make the call to Gary. No, that would be David's widow, or Gary's parents. "God," he said, and he turned toward the doorway, his mouth dry. "Let's go, let's do it, I'm alright."

Like Ruby, David was seated on the couch in the front room, posed to greet whomever came through the door. Stan swallowed against his gag reflex and hoped that the kids hadn't even gotten a glimpse, that David's wife had backed up before they could step through the door. At first glance, David and Ruby's dead bodies were near mirror images, cut in three places and missing a tongue, but after a few seconds Stan noticed the most obvious difference.

"The middle cut," he said. The Chief was standing between him and Bebe, poised to take notes.

"It's diagonal," Bebe said. "The chest wound - on Ruby it was horizontal."

"We noted that," the Chief said. "Look closer. Look at the room, smell the air. Anything popping out at you?"

"The furniture's not disturbed," Stan said. "With Ruby there was more of a struggle."

"Which is odd," Bebe said. "Considering David is - was - bigger and likely stronger than she was."

"There was no forced entry, either," the Chief said. "Fuck, if only it had snowed. But he would have covered his tracks anyway. This guy is a professional animal. These victims have to be connected in some way, either in reality or in his mind."

"Ruby and David?" Bebe said. "Are they the same age?"

"Nearly. David Harrison was 25. Ruby Tucker was 27."

Their discussion continued, but Stan lost the ability to follow it, his gaze frozen on David's body. David's eyes were closed, his hands turned palms-up on the couch cushions in a gesture of surrender. There was no bruising on his face, indicating that his tongue, like Ruby's, had been removed after he was already dead. His shoes were tied, belt buckled, and his hair seemed neatened in a way that made Stan envision the killer doing so after his victim had stopped twitching, just before he crept away unseen.

"It's a two," Stan said.

Bebe and the Chief stopped talking and turned to him.

"Sorry, Lieutenant?" the Chief said.

"The three cuts. I was thinking it was like a 'Z' pattern, but it could be the number two. On Ruby there were three slashes, all horizontal. And the report said they were made right to left. Like you'd - like you'd write the number three, facing left. On this one - on David it's like a number two."

"I'll mention that to Olmert. He'll want to talk to you both before he writes up his report. I'm going to have you both file a report on the scene, too, and any similarities to how you found Tucker. Take some more time here, and focus. That's a good start, Marsh. The number two, sure. Could be."

Despite his good start, Stan wasn't able to come up with anything more from viewing the body or the room, aside from an increasingly knife-sharp horror that seemed to be emanating from the pit of his stomach. An hour later the coroner transferred David's body to a stretcher, and Stan made it all the way to the station without getting sick, but as soon as he was alone in the men's room he retched a few times, unable to actually purge anything, physical or otherwise.

It was after midnight by the time he finished writing his report, and Wayne was in bed when he called the house, his birthday over.

"It's horrible," Lola said on the phone, whispering. "Who would attack that family? What kind of monster would want to hurt that sweet man?"

"You want me to come over?" Stan asked, hopeful. "Just, I mean. I could sleep on the couch, if the kids are scared. I'm sure people are already talking."

"My parents are still here, they're sleeping on the fold-out," Lola said. "But, thanks."

"You need anything, just call me. Just. Watch the kids, you know, until we- find something. Someone."

"Stan, you sound so tired. Are you still at work?"

"Headed home now."

He had intended to go home, but as soon as Bebe dropped him off at his car, still parked on the street outside the house he used to share with Lola, he knew he wouldn't make it back to his place. Instead, he headed to Kevin McCormick's apartment, relived when he saw that the light was still on in his front window. Kevin worked the night shift at the liquor store and usually slept from six in the morning to three in the afternoon. He answered the door with his usual loopy grin, and didn't seem to notice how freaked out Stan was until he was inside, engulfed in the comforting glow from Kevin's freshwater aquarium and by the smell of pot that laced the air in every room of his apartment.

"You're all pale," Kevin said, and he bent down to kiss Stan's cheek. Like Kenny, he was over six feet tall and had a wide chest. Kevin's shoulders were thicker than Kenny's, and he had a chin that was padded but not quite double. He was getting a little fat, recently, but Stan didn't much care at the moment or in general. He already felt pathetic for ending up with his head in the toilet at the station, so he avoided the temptation to dump himself against Kevin's chest and moved around him, going for the lit joint that was resting in the ashtray Kevin kept on his pot-dusted coffee table.

"I've seen two mutilated bodies in the past three days," Stan said after he'd taken a drag. "I need, just. Can I hang out?"

"Of course, dude, yeah. Jesus, I saw that on the news, they found another body? Some family man, younger than me? Some fucked up shit. You want a beer?"

"I just want to sit down," Stan said, and he did, collapsing onto Kevin's scummy old couch with the joint still pinched between his fingers. He dragged on it again, feeling guilty, though it wasn't like anyone needed him at the moment. He'd pulled an extra six hour shift, there'd been nobody to save on the scene, the person who killed David Harrison was invisible, and Stan's ex-in-laws were standing guard at his ex-house along with Lola. Stan felt like a spare part, and he wondered if Bebe had been headed over to Kenny's when she left the station, and who had driven him home from the party after she left. Possibly he'd walked; it was very Kenny to be content with just walking for miles if that meant he could have a buzz while he travelled. Stan took another hit from the joint, his stomach finally beginning to settle. He accepted a can of Country Time Lemonade when Kevin brought it from the kitchen, and gladly cuddled into the slightly rank heat of Kevin's body when he sat close and put his arm around Stan's shoulders.

"Sorry you had to see that shit," Kevin said, touching Stan's face. He was always doing that, stroking Stan's cheeks and jaw, pinching his chin. It was sort of annoying, sort of endearing. He had pretty big hands, and Stan could never decide if he was attracted or repulsed by this.

"I wish this kind of thing didn't fuck me up so bad," Stan said. "I mean, it fucks everybody up, sure, but it happens, and it's part of my job. Apparently, now."

"Is it a serial killer? They were saying that on the news."

"I don't know about that, but the murders are definitely connected. God, I don't want to talk about it. I just spent two hours writing a report, and an hour before that with the lead detective, almost an hour on the scene-"

"Okay, shhh," Kevin said, and Stan leaned away a little when he did the cheek stroking thing again. "You want me to fuck you?" Kevin asked, sweetly, and Stan snorted.

"No. Maybe later. My son turned thirteen today, did Kenny tell you? Yesterday, I guess, actually. What time is it?"

"Umm, quarter till one," Kevin said, peering at the clock on his phone, which was lying on the coffee table next to the ashtray. "Kenny said he was going to a party, earlier," Kevin said, and he maneuvered Stan until he could rub his shoulders. It felt good, and Stan let his head drop forward, his eyes sliding shut. "I didn't know it was your kid's party. Though maybe Kenny did mention that. He was buying that video game, yeah."

"Is he sleeping with Bebe again?" Stan asked, his voice already deteriorating into a mumble. He was going to sleep soon, he had to, but it wasn't going to be very restful. He felt like he was already in the prelude to a nightmare, could almost hear the eerie music building softly in the background.

"Hmm," Kevin said. "I don't know, man, he might be fucking her. She's a cool chick, probably too good for him. I gotta go to the parlor for that girl's funeral tomorrow, he wants me parking cars. I guess he'll have to do another one soon. They gonna catch this guy or what?"

"Yes," Stan said, though he felt less confident about this than he had after they found Ruby. Something darker than the killings themselves was at work in South Park. Someone was trying to have a conversation with the town, and they were writing their messages in mortal wounds.

Stan fell asleep on the couch before he could finish his can of lemonade. Though Kevin could barely fit on the couch by himself, he stayed there with Stan, half on top of him. It was comforting, being anchored to the earth by another person while he slept, but not exactly comfortable, and Stan woke five times before his phone rang at the crack of dawn, rousing him from one semi-lucid state and into another.

"Marsh." It was the Chief, and Stan was pretty sure he hadn't slept at all. "I need you back at the crime scene as soon as you can get here in uniform."

"Get - you mean, to the station?"

"No, the goddamn crime scene at Vine. I turned my back for two minutes and they've got FBI from Denver crawling all over my shit. It's not protocol - they think they can show up at four in the morning and I won't notice?"

"What - okay, um. I could be there in about half an hour, I think."

"Don't think, Lieutenant, do it!"

The Chief hung up, and Stan appreciated that, for the first time since the Tucker murder, he wasn't treating Stan as if he was delicate and in need of special handling. Kevin was still asleep behind Stan on the couch, and Stan didn't bother to wake him or leave a note. He and Kevin regularly made speedy exits while the other was sleeping; neither of them took anything about this situation very personally, despite all the cheek stroking.

Stan felt light-headed and heavy-limbed on the way to his car, and the inside of his mouth tasted terrible. At his house, he peeled off his stale clothes and brushed his teeth, but didn't allow time for showering. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with the FBI, but he'd heard they were a pain the ass, condescending, unwilling to respect local knowledge and biased against other organizations in ways that could screw over an investigation. Since this was the highest profile case South Park had dealt with in decades, Stan wasn't surprised that they were trying to get involved, but he was already in support of the Chief's distaste for their meddling. He dressed in a clean uniform, his last one, and hoped he'd have the time and energy to get to the dry cleaners later in the day.

His stomach started tightening again as he pulled onto Vine Street, and he realized he was afraid that the body would still be there, though in his rational mind he was aware that it was now at the morgue. Exiting the car in uniform and with his gun on his hip made him feel less raw than he had the day before, but only slightly. He searched the mix of cops and FBI agents on the front lawn for Bebe, and at first his eyes skipped over the red-haired man standing near the garage and talking with some other random suit. Then his breath stuttered and he felt something shift in the cold morning air, at the pit of his stomach, and in a painful corner of his heart that wasn't as strongly fortified as he'd thought, doors he'd locked there years ago already straining outward and threatening to burst open, because that was Kyle Broflovski standing there, talking to some guy, not even noticing as Stan moved toward him in a kind of disbelieving trance.

"Kyle?" Stan said, and only after Kyle and the other man turned to him did he realize he'd thought he could say that without having Kyle actually hear it.

"Oh." Kyle frowned slightly. His hair was on the short side, styled carefully, and he didn't look like he'd been up since four in the morning. "Hi, yes, good. Finally, a cop who will cooperate with us. Mac, this is Stan Marsh, we knew each other as kids. Stan, this is my-"

"What are you doing here?" Stan asked, too tired not to nearly shout this, disbelief clouding his vision at the corners. He wanted to drag Kyle aside and yell at him, because this made no sense, and because Stan was still, it turned out, so fucking angry.

"No one told you?" Kyle said, frowning again. He pushed his shoulders back, straightened his fitted suit jacket and lifted his chin a little. Stan and this Mac character were both taller than Kyle, and Stan felt like Kyle was maybe bothered by this, because he'd always been sensitive about his height, though he wasn't actually that short - but Stan didn't know Kyle anymore and there was no fucking telling what he was going to say next, based on what he'd said already.

"I'm here with the FBI," Kyle said, and Stan almost laughed when he got out his badge and showed it to Stan. "I'm lead on this investigation, though your police chief is in some kind of hysterical denial about that. We're in the process of clearing the cops out of here, actually, though we will need them to keep traffic off this road."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Stan asked, waiting to wake up from this new nightmare, back on Kevin's couch, though everything around him suddenly felt more real than it had in days, in a brutal sort of way. Kyle glanced at Mac and raised his eyebrows slightly before turning back to Stan.

"I'm just telling you, Stan," Kyle said, stepping toward him, "Because apparently no one else has. The murders in South Park are now under investigation by the FBI. We're here from Denver to help. I took a special assignment because I have familiarity with the region, from growing up here."

"Familiarity with the region," Stan said, biting the words out.

"Yes," Kyle said. He actually had the balls to smile then, friendly-like. "To put it simply, well. This is my crime scene now."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay in updating - I got sidetracked with a couple of other projects, but now I'm back into it and looking forward to writing more. Let me know if you have thoughts or questions along the way!

* * *

><p>Stan hadn't even seen pictures of Kyle for over a year, and the sight of his face was an unwanted trip back through time. It had always been that way: disarmingly familiar, a relic from Stan's earliest memories of happiness and terror. It wasn't Kyle that had scared him, back then, but what might happen to Kyle if he succumbed to his various illnesses or fell prey to Cartman's schemes. Now Stan was experiencing something akin to terror just from seeing him without warning, and he was afraid to do or say the wrong thing, which brought to mind another kind of Kyle memory altogether.<p>

"You," Stan managed to say while Kyle and his partner stared.

"I'll be damned," Bebe said. "I mean, I guess it makes sense. You do know the neighborhood." She scoffed and stepped forward to whack Kyle on the shoulder. He didn't seem especially receptive to the gesture. "Welcome to the investigation," Bebe said, a bit sharply.

"You're being pulled from it," Mac said. "We need you to help keep the street clear while we survey the crime scene."

"I'll wait to hear that from my actual boss," Bebe said. "Thanks."

"Stan, Bebe, this is my partner, Ryan MacKenzie," Kyle said, and that took the wind out of Stan like a sock to the gut, as if Kyle was introducing his husband. "Mac, these are some of the friends I was telling you about. I'm sure they'll be very helpful."

Stan made an insulted noise without meaning to. Kyle seemed to be avoiding his eyes, his mouth a little pinched.

"Of course we can help," Bebe said. "If you really are going to take over the investigation, you'll need to talk to us. Me and Stan discovered the first vic, and we were on the scene before the coroner took the second one."

"Oh," Kyle said. He met Stan's gaze then, and for a moment he seemed a bit lost. "That's. I'm sure you don't see crime scenes like that often, um. Here in South Park."

"Stevens! Marsh!"

The Chief was heading toward them, and he looked so pissed off that for a moment Stan felt a prehistoric twinge of protectiveness, as if he should step in front of Kyle and shield him.

"Chief Yates," Kyle said, showing no sign of intimidation, which Stan thought was pretty ballsy. Kyle could at least defer to Yates a little, based on their age difference. Instead, Kyle flashed his badge in the Chief's face as he arrived. "I'm Special Agent Broflovski, and this is my partner, Special Agent MacKenzie. We were told there's been some kind of misunderstanding-"

"You're goddamn right there's been a misunderstanding," Yates said. "Nobody in Denver cleared this through me. This is an ambush, and I won't-"

"We've got our paperwork in order," MacKenzie said. He was almost smiling as he presented a dossier to Yates. "We didn't think it would be an issue when our field agents arrived, but if you truly doubt that we've been properly assigned here, feel free to review the Bureau signatures. You can call our boss, if you like?" MacKenzie dug out his cell phone, as if Yates wouldn't have one. Yates threw the dossier back at him, and MacKenzie's small smile quirked. He was a good-looking guy with dark brown hair and a day's worth of stubble, and he appeared to be about Kyle's age. Stan wanted to stomp on his foot. Kyle seemed mildly embarrassed; he was touching his tie.

"Shove your signatures up your ass," Yates said. "This is our investigation, and two murders are hardly grounds for an FBI takeover. We can handle this, and I will be calling your supervisor, kid."

"Feel free," MacKenzie said, offering the phone again. Bebe caught Yates' arm when he moved as if to slap it out of MacKenzie's hand.

"Chief," Bebe said, and her cheeks went red when Yates turned his furious look on her. "It's been a long night. Do you want me to get in touch with the Denver FBI? We can sort this all out, I'm sure."

The Chief and Bebe stepped aside to have a muttered conversation, and MacKenzie pulled Kyle away to do the same. Stan stood between the two factions, staring openly at Kyle. He had stopped fidgeting with his tie and now had his hands crossed over his chest, his head tilted down as he listened to MacKenzie, nodding. When Kyle looked up and saw Stan watching him, his expression took on a pitying quality that made Stan scowl and turn away. He walked over to Bebe and Yates, shaking with a kind of rage that made him feel exposed, as if this was one of his dreams where he showed up to work in his underwear.

"This is exactly how an investigation gets screwed up," Yates was saying, almost spitting with anger. "Bureaucratic crap, and this imaginary idea that some outside organization is going to run a tighter ship, despite the fact that they don't know shit from shinola about what goes on in this town. It's bullshit!"

"I agree," Bebe said. "But Kyle, well. He did grow up here."

"So?" Stan said, and they both turned to him as if they hadn't realized he was there. "That doesn't mean. He doesn't know shit, Bebe. He's been away for a long time."

"Well, sure." Bebe frowned a little and turned back to the Chief. "Do you want me to look into this?" she asked. He shook his head.

"I'll take care of it," he said, muttering. "Back at the station, I'll make some calls. You two stay here and make sure they don't screw anything up."

Stan wasn't sure what could be screwed up, with the body already moved from the crime scene and the surviving members of the Harrison family staying across town at the Holiday Inn, awaiting the arrival of more relatives. He stood beside Bebe as they watched the Chief walking toward his car, barking at guys in black FBI windbreakers to get out of his way.

"This is fucking weird," Bebe said, peeking over her shoulder at Kyle and MacKenzie. "Oh, shit," she said, under her breath. "He's coming over here."

"Kyle?" Stan's heart was already racing.

"Uh-huh."

Stan braced himself and turned, glad to see that MacKenzie was wandering off in the other direction, toward the house. Kyle was pale but seemed healthy, not as underfed as he'd appeared to be throughout high school. The short hair was odd, but Stan could see why he'd styled it that way. Kyle looked professional, serious, and, when his tie blew back over his shoulder, cute. Stan was infuriated, by this and by everything that was suddenly happening, and as Kyle drew closer he gave Stan a look that clearly asked him to calm the fuck down, please.

"Wow," Bebe said. "Your partner is pretty impressed with himself."

"Sorry about that." Kyle grabbed his tie and tucked it back into his jacket. "He's, um. Anyway, I will need your help, and I'm sorry your Chief is taking this so personally-"

"It is personal," Stan said, sharply. "This was Gary's brother. Our friend's brother. This is our town, and-"

"Don't make this a pissing contest," Kyle said, holding up his hands. "Stan, seriously. I thought you, of all people, would-"

"Well, you don't really know me anymore, Kyle, so you can stop making assumptions about what I will or won't do."

"Whoa," Bebe said, laughing a little. "Hey, okay. Stan."

"You could have given us some advance warning," Stan said. "It's pretty fucking weird for you to just show up like this, like a stranger, and then proclaim yourself an expert on the indigenous population of South Park."

"What is wrong with you?" Kyle asked, glowering now. "You've got bags under your eyes. Are you alright?"

"Hey," Bebe said, to Kyle this time. "It's been a long week. This isn't just a job for us, this is our community. You could tell your FBI buddies that showing a little respect might go a long way toward gaining our cooperation."

"They have been respectful," Kyle said. "Okay, Mac was a little snotty toward Yates, and I talked to him about that. But this resistance from your Chief is pointless and immature. People are dead. You don't think we take that seriously? That I don't?" He glanced at Stan, his expression softening a little. Stan huffed and looked away.

"It's been a long week," Bebe said again, more tightly this time. "Just don't think you can show up and pick up where we've left off. People are scared. The Harrison murder just happened yesterday, and there's a lot of fear about what could happen next."

"That's exactly why we're here," Kyle said. "To help. Do people know about the tongues?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"Kenny told us there's been some gossip about that," Bebe said. "But I'm not sure how it got out. We did let Craig and his father read the full police report about Ruby."

"Craig," Kyle said, his hand going to his tie again. "Kenny. Jesus. It has been a while, I know. I'm sorry, ah. I haven't really kept in touch."

"It's fine," Stan said, attempting to sound dismissive. "Do you want us inside? We can tell you what we know so far."

"We can do that elsewhere," Kyle said. "Over coffee, maybe? I haven't had breakfast. I can leave Mac here to keep an eye on things while I interview you guys. If you're free?"

"Stan's free," Bebe said, and Stan cut her a very not-subtle outraged look. "What?" she said. "Chief asked me to stay on site until he gets back."

"He asked both of us to do that," Stan said, tightly. Bebe shrugged.

"He said we should keep an eye on the FBI guys," she said. "If Kyle's going for breakfast, you'd better go along. To keep an eye on him, and he can interview you in the meantime. What?"

"I need to get my bearings," Kyle said. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the neighborhood, rolling his shoulders back. "It would help if I could get coffee with you, Stan," he said, still looking out toward the mountains. "You guys will be an invaluable resource to our investigation here. Nobody's denying that. With two organizations working together, we can cover more ground."

"You said this was your investigation now," Stan said.

"I'm lead detective," Kyle said. "Specially appointed, and we've been given federal jurisdiction to take over the investigation, yes. FBI trumps local law enforcement."

"I thought you didn't want a pissing contest."

"I don't, that's just protocol! Jesus, why are you being such an asshole?"

"You guys go get coffee," Bebe said, pressing Stan toward Kyle, her hands on the small of his back. "Talk it out. Think of the relatives of the deceased," she said, flicking Stan's shoulder. "Don't let old - whatever - get in the way of all of us working together to find this killer. Kyle's right, Stan. The FBI can help. Don't be like Yates. This is about bringing a murderer to justice, not about anybody's pride."

"Oh, great speech," Stan mumbled, annoyed by her continued attempts to nudge him in Kyle's direction. He turned to give her an apologetic look, because he knew she was right. "I'll go," he said. "You let me know if you need me here."

"Will do."

"Should I drive?" Kyle asked, patting his pockets. "Oh - hang on, Mac's got the keys."

"I'll drive," Stan said. He squared his shoulders and pulled out his own keys. "You guys share a car?" he said, muttering this as Bebe headed up toward the house.

"FBI only wants to pay for one rental," Kyle said. Stan headed for his car, and Kyle fell into step beside him. Looking at the top of Kyle's head, which was so goddamn familiar that Stan's eyes stung a little, Stan wanted to retract every shitbag thing he'd just barked at Kyle, who was only trying to do his job. "You should see the crappy motel they've put us up in," Kyle said. "It's that old Travelodge out by the highway." Kyle looked up at Stan and smiled. "Separate rooms, at least," he said, as if Stan had asked out loud. He had wondered, of course, immediately. It was very annoying that Kyle could still read his mind.

"So you're coming from D.C.?" Stan asked as they approached his car.

"No, no," Kyle said. "I haven't worked out of D.C. in over a year. I'm in Denver now."

"Really. Why?"

"Why not?" Kyle gave Stan a look and walked around to the front passenger side of his squad car. He tried the door, but it was locked.

"Legally, you should ride in the back," Stan said. "You know. Since you're not a cop."

Kyle snorted. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. I could get in trouble. Dude, don't take it personally."

"Oh, god," Kyle said, mumbling, but he moved to the backseat.

Stan felt bad about putting him there, behind the steel grille that separated the front seats from the back, especially when Kyle was silent during the drive. Stan kept coming up with and rejecting ice breakers.

"How are your folks?" he finally asked.

"You don't have to shout," Kyle said. "I'm right here."

"I wasn't shouting."

"You - never mind. My parents are fine. They love New York. They want me to move up there, of course."

"Will you?"

"No. I missed Colorado. That's why I came back. Also, because they offered to promote me if I moved to Denver. It's a tough game in D.C., man. I was working myself sick out there."

"So Colorado's good for your health?" Stan felt himself taking this as a kind of compliment, absurdly. Kyle smiled as if he could tell.

"Good for my mental health," Kyle said. "So far, anyway. This is my first high profile case that doesn't involve drugs. Potentially high profile, anyway."

"It might involve drugs," Stan said, then he remembered David Harrison and felt like an asshole. "Probably not, though. Ruby's tox screen was clean, and I'd be really surprised if Gary's brother was into - anything. I mean, I'm sure he wasn't."

"I read the initial profile of David this morning," Kyle said. "Have you, um. Is Gary still living here?"

"No. Craig isn't, either, but he came back for his sister's funeral. Me and Bebe got a drink with him the other night. He was really shaken. For Craig."

"Craig," Kyle said, again pronouncing this name as if he'd just been told that an extinct species prowled the streets of South Park. "What a nightmare for that family. And the Harrisons, my god. Are you still friendly with Gary?"

"I was when he lived here," Stan said. Kyle had always been jealous of his friendship with Gary Harrison, and he appreciated this question a great deal. "But I haven't talked with him much since he moved away. I suppose he'll be back, for. Jesus. The funeral."

"Is Kenny still the local mortician?"

"Yep."

"That's so weirdly fitting," Kyle said. "Though I can't really figure out why."

"Mhm." Stan had always felt that way, too, in both senses. He'd forgotten how easy it was to talk to Kyle, even after yelling at him over nothing. "Sorry," he said as he pulled into the diner's parking lot. "For, like. Going off on you, before."

"You look so tired," Kyle said, leaning toward the grille that separated them. "It must have been horrible, discovering a body. I saw bloody crime scenes back in D.C., and I've seen a few corpses in Denver, but. To be the one who, like. Walked in, who found them. God."

"I'm alright." Stan turned the car off and climbed out, realizing only after a few steps away from the vehicle that he hadn't released the auto locks on the backseat. He turned around and gave Kyle a sheepish grin. Kyle was staring grimly from the locked backseat, trying the door for the third time. "Sorry," Stan said when he'd hurried over to let him out. "Sorry, I don't usually, uh. Go for coffee with the perp."

"Uh-huh," Kyle said. He stared up at Stan after he'd gotten out of the car, looking annoyed. "Why do I feel as though you just whisked me away from my own crime scene in cuffs?"

"Kyle, what the hell? This was your idea."

"I know," Kyle said, walking toward the door. "You just. Never mind, ugh."

Inside, the diner was more crowded than Stan usually saw it. The sun was up now, shaded by heavy cloud cover, and pre-work patrons were sipping coffee and forking eggs. The usual waitress gave Kyle and his tailored suit a long appraisal after handing them the menus.

"Bebe's not on shift?" she said when she poured Stan's coffee.

"She is," Stan said. "Just working on site, um. In the field, at the moment."

"Down at the Harrison house?" The waitress made a mournful sound, bringing the coffee pot to her chest. She still hadn't filled Kyle's mug. "What in the hell is going on around here, Stan?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," he said. He looked at Kyle's empty mug, and she filled it. "Don't worry. We've got help now, too, from Denver."

"It's that serious?" Her eyes went wide as if this news was the furthest thing from a comfort.

"We'll nip it in the bud," Stan said, and he wanted to groan when he heard himself sounding so glib about two violent deaths. "I mean. Don't worry."

"You said that already, but I'm worried as hell. No offense to law enforcement, but I won't sleep well until somebody's caught for this. You boys know what you want?"

Stan ordered pancakes and bacon. Kyle asked for scrambled eggs and toast, then called the waitress back to ask for bacon as well. He put a lot of cream in his coffee, no sugar.

"I read this news story about an implant diabetics can get to regulate their insulin," Stan said. He could feel his face coloring as he spoke, but Kyle was staring down into his milky coffee, stirring it up. "Thought of you," Stan muttered, and he drank too soon from his mug, burning his tongue.

"I read that, too," Kyle said. "I don't think it's for me. Anyway, Stan." Kyle looked up then, and the color of his eyes seemed too brilliant for the florescent-lit diner and its greasy surfaces. Ostentatious, almost. "How are you?" Kyle asked, softly. "How are your kids?"

"They're good. Wayne just turned thirteen." He started to mention the arrest, then stopped himself. "I got divorced," he said instead, staring Kyle straight on to judge his reaction. Kyle nodded and blew into his coffee cup.

"I know," he said.

"How?"

"I, oh. I guess I looked at Lola's Facebook page. Since you don't have one. I do wonder how you're doing, sometimes."

"You and Lola are Facebook friends?"

"No, but she, um. Her public profile shows her relationship status, so. Anyway, are you seeing anybody?" Kyle asked, and now he was the one speaking too loudly, turning red across the cheeks.

"A couple people," Stan said, and he laughed at himself for referring to the Kevins this way, imagining how Kyle would react if he knew who Stan's latest conquests were.

"People?" Kyle said, raising his eyebrows, and Stan's heart dropped into his stomach so fast that he almost threw up right there at the table. He hadn't meant to say it like that. He had forgotten, sort of, somehow, that Kyle didn't know he slept with men. It had always been his default to assume Kyle already knew everything about him. All the important stuff, anyway.

"How about you?" Stan said, and he knew he was showing his hand just by avoiding the question. Kyle's face was frozen into a kind of pre-shock, and he didn't seem to have heard the returned question. "Hmm?" Stan said. "You dating anybody in Denver?"

"No - nobody." Kyle frowned and sat back. He drank from his coffee. "Hmm," he said, judgmentally.

"Don't 'hmmm' me. How about that Mac guy, he in love with you yet?"

"Yet!" Kyle guffawed and thunked his coffee cup down so hard that some nearly sloshed out. "He's straight, for one thing. Yet." Kyle was smiling now, and Stan hoped he was pleased enough with that compliment not to be cruel and ask about Stan's sexual partners or the genders thereof. "A lot's changed," Kyle said. "Around here, it seems."

"Not so much as you'd think. Did you read Ruby's profile, too?" Stan was glad when the food arrived to accompany this subject change.

"I did," Kyle said, nodding slowly. "I would have guessed her a random selection based on her looks, age, the fact that she's a woman living alone, but the second victim is virtually opposite. Married, male, fair-haired. Ruby was a natural red head."

Stan caught himself wanting to reach across the table and place his hand over Kyle's in some kind of weird protective gesture, in defense of imperiled natural red heads. Kyle sighed.

"Poor girl," he said. "Anyway, the only thing they have in common is their age range. Mid to late twenties. That's not much."

"And they both had brothers in our grade," Stan said, realizing this as he spoke. Kyle's interested frown mirrored his own. "Shit," Stan said. "You think that means something?"

"It could." Kyle whipped out his phone and started thumb typing.

"Are you texting MacKenzie?" Stan asked, annoyed. Kyle snorted, still typing.

"No," he said. "I'm making a note to myself. Hey, good thinking, Stan. But what could that mean?"

"Hell if I know. Probably nothing. Seems like a coincidence."

"No, this killer is specifically motivated by something. The tongues tell you that much, and taking the risk of choosing two victims in a very small town, over a short period. This was all planned out - my guess is that our suspect is on a timetable that's probably been years in the making. Wow, okay. Let's think."

Kyle tossed his phone down on the table and began shoveling eggs in his mouth. He looked excited, his eyes lighting up and looking less ostentatious now, alive with questions unasked and unanswered. Stan forked pancakes into his mouth to hide a stupid grin. This wasn't a game, or a charming high school reunion. This was work, the important kind, and it would stay that way until Kyle disappeared back into the city.

"Can't believe you've been in Denver for a year," Stan said, unable to hold it in. Kyle shrugged.

"I thought about calling you when I saw that your marriage was, uh. Breaking up. But I thought I'd be the last person you'd want to hear from."

Stan didn't refute that. Kyle had never supported his decision to get married. He had never forgiven Stan for getting Lola pregnant in the first place, and when he heard that Stan was going to make a go of being a husband as well as a father he put an invisible but powerful force field between them and gave Stan no opportunities to catch more than the occasional distant glimpse of him once it was in place.

"Anyway," Kyle said, pointedly. He drank some more coffee, picked up a piece of bacon and sighed. "I shouldn't eat this," he said, and then he did.

"Who else has younger siblings?" Stan asked. "Of the boys who were in our grade?"

"Well, me," Kyle said. "But hopefully Ike is safe in Switzerland."

"He's - yeah?"

"Yeah, he got a grant, he's a really big deal." Kyle rolled his eyes and ate more bacon. "I'm surprised you haven't come across articles about his research, it's-"

"Oh, god," Stan said, dropping his fork. "Kenny - Karen."

"Call him," Kyle said, and he grabbed his napkin, balling it up in his fist. "I mean. She's probably fine, but. Couldn't hurt."

"Right."

Stan grabbed his phone and dialed Kenny's number. There was no answer, unsurprisingly; Kenny did his work at night, unless he was hosting a funeral at the parlor, and he slept during the day. Karen had just started grad school in Boulder, and she commuted there from South Park, where she still lived with Mrs. McCormick. Their house wasn't far from the apartments were Ruby was killed.

"Kenny," Stan said, when his voicemail picked up. "It's Stan, look. We realized something about the victims of the two murders. Gary and Craig were in the same graduating class in high school - ours. Their younger siblings were both killed. It might be nothing, but I wanted to give you a heads up, because, Karen. I'll head over to her place and give her a courtesy visit, um. Don't worry."

"Should we go?" Kyle asked when Stan hung up.

"Yeah," Stan said, and he waved for the check. "I mean. It's probably fine-"

"Unlikely that two would be killed in a twenty-four hour period," Kyle said. He looked less excited now, more nervous.

"Fuck, except for - the numbers." Stan hopped up, and Kyle did, too. "Sorry," Stan called when he met the waitress' eyes, headed for the door. "I've got an emergency call, put that on my tab."

"Oh, lord," she said, standing behind the counter with the coffee pot. "Not another one?"

"No," Stan said, but he could tell by the expressions of everyone in the diner, all of them suddenly staring at him, that this wasn't convincing.

"What numbers?" Kyle asked when they jogged to the car.

"On their chests," Stan said. "Ruby had three horizontal slashes. Michael had a horizontal slash on his throat and stomach, but the one across his chest was diagonal. Making a kind of number two, maybe, I thought."

"Jesus," Kyle said. "I noticed the difference in the pictures, but I didn't see David's wounds as a two."

"No, hey," Stan said when Kyle went for the backseat. "Fuck that. Sit up front, with me."

Stan put his siren on, and they were silent on the ride to Karen and Carol's house. Stan couldn't have concentrated on even the smallest of talk; he was praying in a kind of mental gibberish, the start of one desperate prayer tripping over the end of the last one. He couldn't remember the last time he'd prayed for anything, unless those fumbling seconds before he heard that Wayne was at the police station and not the hospital counted. He cut the siren when they turned onto Karen's street, and laughed out loud with relief when he saw Carol taking out the garbage, wearing a tank top and a pair of sweatpants with BRONCOS printed on the ass.

"Looks like everything's okay," Stan said, slightly breathless as he parked near the curb. Kyle glanced over at him with that pitying expression again.

"Oh," Kyle said. "You really thought-? But we should check and see if she's home."

"Right," Stan said, and he cut the engine. Carol was scowling at them from the end of the driveway, still holding the bag of trash. She had never liked cops and wasn't easy to deal with.

"What do ya'll want?" she asked when they approached. She was addressing Stan, but turned to frown at Kyle when they got closer. "Oh, hey," she said. "I remember you." She gasped and dropped the trash bag, clapping her hands over her mouth. Stan could seen Kyle flinch; he was probably thinking of the germs. "Shit, no!" Carol said. "Something's happened to Kenny, hasn't it?"

"No, no," Stan said. "We just wanted to check on Karen. Is she home?"

"Check on - well, yeah, she's home, she's gettin' ready to drive to class. What do you want with her?"

"We just need to talk to her," Kyle said, and he flashed his FBI badge. "On official business."

Stan snorted, and Kyle gave him a sideways glance.

"She ain't done nothing wrong!" Carol said. "Why are ya'll harassing us? I'm clean since Stuart moved out, ask anybody!"

"Nobody's in trouble," Kyle explained while Stan went toward the house, still unsettled. Horrible images had been flashing through his mind on the drive over, despite his praying. He knocked on the door and let out his breath when Karen answered right away, frowning.

"Stan?" she said. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Stan said, beaming. He wanted to hug her, his fear about Kenny and Kevin crumpling with grief receding. "Hey, okay. You're alright."

"Why shouldn't I be?" She frowned more deeply when Kyle appeared at Stan's shoulder. "What's Kyle doing here? Mom?"

"They say everything's fine," Carol said. She pushed around Stan and into the house, giving him an unwelcoming look when she stood behind Karen. "But they won't tell me just what in the hell they're doing here."

"We're investigating two homicides," Kyle said. Stan noticed that his voice changed, just slightly, when he was in FBI mode. It was a bit flatter, less excitable. "We made the connection just now that the victims both had brothers who graduated with us, in our class. It's a long shot, but the only real connection we've made so far. Well, Stan made the connection," he said, his FBI voice faltering slightly. Stan shrugged.

"We were just brainstorming," Stan said. "Trying to think of anyone else in our grade who had younger siblings. Kenny's name came up, so we wanted to check on you, make sure you're safe. And you might, uh. Take extra precautions until we figure out what's going on with these murders. Who did them, I mean - until we catch the killer."

"Jesus Christ," Karen said, her eyes bugging out. "What am I supposed to do? Why would they want to kill me?" Her eyes fogged up. "Ruby was my friend," she said. "But I haven't spoken to David Harrison in years."

"I could be totally off base with this," Stan said. "But is it possible for you to avoid being alone for the next few days? I don't know if I have enough grounds to get an officer detail assigned as your bodyguard, but-"

"Whoa, what?" Karen scoffed. "You're seriously saying that I should be on the lookout for someone who wants to murder me? What the fuck!" Tears were brimming in her eyes now, and Stan could see her trembling when Carol put her arms around her, shushing her.

"There's no need for alarm at this stage," Kyle said. "Just caution. Particularly since you were friends with one of the victims. I'm, um. I'm very sorry for your loss, by the way."

"What are you doing here?" Karen asked, and she sobbed once before clearing her eyes. "I thought you moved away."

"I did. I'm here with the FBI. We're treating this as a serial killer case."

"Oh my god!" Karen turned into her mother's arms and wept, hiding her face. Carol glared at Kyle, then Stan.

"What the hell do you mean to do, coming here and telling her this? You'll give the girl a nervous breakdown!"

"Maybe Kenny could accompany her to her classes for a few days," Stan said, feeling like an idiot. Carol scoffed.

"Kenny's up to his ass in funerals this week, no thanks to ya'll!"

When they left, Stan felt chastised and winded, and the feeling didn't dissipate when he was back in his squad car with Kyle in the passenger seat. Stan couldn't help but stare. In his early days at the Academy, he'd envisioned Kyle as his ideal partner, though they hadn't spoken in years. Where ideal partners were concerned, visions of Kyle tended to pop up, typically unwelcome and often without logical explanation.

"Well," Kyle said. "That was probably ridiculous. Certainly it wasn't protocol. See, this is what I feared. I'm back in my hometown and already I'm behaving like an overly emotional teenager."

"You mean by listening to my stupid theory," Stan said, and he started the car.

"No," Kyle said. He groaned. "Maybe we shouldn't work together too closely. You get me - worked up, you always have."

"Roger that," Stan said, gripping the wheel with both hands. "I'll be sure to stay out of your way from here on out."

"Oh, stop." Kyle was quiet for a long time, staring out the window, and Stan knew him well enough, even now, to await the forthcoming explosion. "God!" Kyle said, shouting, when he apparently couldn't hold it back any longer. "You know, I've really missed you, in some ways? But I haven't missed these disorienting goddamn mood swings of yours. You're run so hot and cold, it makes me dizzy!"

Stan said nothing, feeling disoriented himself. On one hand, it was electrifying to be able to talk frankly with Kyle again, and Stan was so thankful that Kyle wasn't closed off like he had been last time they met. On the other hand, he thought it was pretty goddamn ironic and so typical of Kyle to accuse him of being hot and cold after sitting in icy silence until he couldn't stop himself from exploding with anger.

"Maybe you're right," Stan said. "About working together. I don't want to complicate things or get in the way. You drive me up the damn wall, too."

Kyle scoffed and turned back to the window. When they parked at the crime scene, it seemed the FBI had gotten their way: only agents in FBI windbreakers were on the lawn, the police cordoned off to the area near the road block. Stan couldn't see Bebe or Yates, and he wasn't sure if he should stay or report to headquarters. Kyle climbed out of the car, and Stan fully expected him to storm off without another word, because that was his style. Instead, he poked his head back in and gave Stan a look that was equal parts stubborn and pleading. Stan almost whimpered, because it was painful to see Kyle look so young while he had that grownup hair.

"That looks good on you," Kyle said. He shut the door and headed away, toward the house. Stan was left reeling, at first assuming that Kyle was talking about Stan's grownup hair, but he wore it the same way he always had. He looked down at himself and realized Kyle had been referring to his police uniform. Heat pooled in Stan's gut and spread downward. He bent over the steering wheel, craning his neck to see Kyle's ass as he walked uphill toward the Harrison house.

"Fuck," Stan said, the warmth creeping along the insides of his thighs and solidifying into arousal that was powerful the way that the oldest magic was in fairy tales, the kind of thing that could shift the whole universe sideways if the right words were uttered by the right tongue. Kyle had missed him. He'd said so, straight off, and had couched it in criticism that was intimate enough to make Stan's bones ache.

Stan radioed the station, and he could tell just from his conversation with the operator that things were tense there. She gave him orders to report to a minor traffic accident near the highway, and his remaining hours on shift were a tiring combination of directing traffic and doing paperwork. At the station, the Chief had closed himself into his office, and Stan got the feeling he might have passed out with his head on his desk. Stan was ready to do so himself toward the end of the shift.

His cell phone rang as he was heading toward his car, planning to head home and crawl into bed. It was Kenny calling.

"Got your message," Kenny said. "Karen's here with me now, at the parlor. She skipped class today. You guys really freaked her out."

"Sorry," Stan said.

"No, it's okay. I'd rather have her be paranoid than clueless and in danger. You really think. Shit, you think this is something to do with younger siblings from our class?"

"I don't know, it's just what Ruby and David have in common. The only real thing we've come up with so far. Is there anyone else we need to warn? I couldn't think of another guy with younger siblings."

"Well, Kyle."

"Yeah, but Ike's living in Europe these days, apparently. Doing science, or whatever."

"Uh-huh. I talked to him just now."

"Ike?"

"No, Stan. Kyle, I talked to Kyle."

"Oh. Fuck, Kenny- you didn't tell him about the Kevins? Did you?"

"What?" Kenny laughed. "No, your fuck buddies didn't come up. Are you high?"

"No, I'm not high! I'm just coming off shift. Jesus, just. Don't tell him anything about me. I mean, I think he might have guessed, but. We saw each other, did he tell you?"

"Yeah. He said you seemed kind of unwell."

"Jesus, that asshole- he took me totally off guard! And I'm just, like, tired, okay, it's been a long week." Stan rolled his eyes at himself and leaned against his car, feeling almost faint with exhaustion that was still threaded through with the adrenaline rush that seeing Kyle had brought on.

"Anyway, I figured we should round the whole gang up tonight," Kenny said. "For old times' sake. Bebe's in. Are you?"

"The gang, what. And Kyle?"

"Yeah, the three of us and Kyle. I figured inviting Cartman wouldn't go over well with anyone, and Craig hasn't returned my call. But hey, Bebe said Nicole might come. She's still in town, reporting on the murders."

"Hmm. Where is this happening?"

"Bennigan's, dude! I'll drive Karen over to Kevin's place on the way, have him takeover the bodyguard duty for the night. I'll make sure he doesn't smoke."

"Good luck with that. Oh, god, look. I think Clyde's back in town. Don't let him and Kevin - his Kevin - get wind of this little reunion, whatever you do."

"Of course I won't, those guys are the worst. So you're coming?"

"Yeah," Stan said, groaning. "What time?"

"Eight o'clock. Weird to have Kyle here again, huh?"

"That's an understatement. See you tonight."

Stan drove home in a fog, wondering why he'd agreed to an evening of socializing with the old gang when it sounded more or less like torture. He was pretty sure it was entirely because Kyle had said he looked good in his uniform, which wasn't fair. He thought about going over to Kevin McCormick's place to blow off some sexual tension, but he knew it wouldn't work, and Kevin was probably asleep.

When he got home, he took off his gun belt and uniform shirt and flopped into bed still wearing his pants and undershirt. He grabbed a pillow and hugged it, burying his face in downy softness and trying not to think about Kyle. As he was drifting off he realized he hadn't set an alarm to wake him for the trip to Bennigan's, but he rightly predicted that nightmares would startle him out of sleep before long. The one that woke him was about the front yard at David Harrison's house. Stan was digging madly, through the lawn and into the soil below. At first he seemed to have a shovel, but eventually he realized he was digging with his bare, bloody hands. He was screaming, or trying to, because someone was trapped down there and he was pretty sure it was Kyle, a natural red head. The killer was going after red haired people. David's murder was purely a diversion tactic, and Stan was sure of it. He kept screaming at the many people who were standing around the hole that he was frantically digging - other cops from his department, strange cops, random townspeople, and some FBI types who were wearing sunglasses, though it was dark outside. They only stared at him with vague concern, nobody offering to help. Stan's throat was raw as he tried to scream louder, harder, and finally he realized they couldn't hear him because he didn't have a tongue.

He woke in his dark bedroom, a sizable puddle of drool on his pillow. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding. He might have actually screamed; no one was home to hear him. He scrambled for his phone to check the time and was disappointed to see that there was still an hour before he was due to meet Kenny and the others at Bennigan's. He didn't particularly feel like being alone, or like he would be able to get back to sleep.

Stan put the light on his bedside table on and rolled onto his back. He took some deep breaths and stared at the ceiling, trying to calm his racing heart. His bedroom was drafty, and he could feel that the temperature had dropped more dramatically than it had the night before. There was a popping sound in the distance, somewhere out in the neighborhood. It wasn't loud enough to be gun fire or cheerful enough to be fireworks. When it stopped, Stan closed his eyes and spread his legs, shifted his hips. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. He was starting to get an erection, the adrenaline-fueled fear from his dream morphing into adrenaline-fueled arousal. It was strange how smooth the transition felt. He was thinking about Kyle, letting himself sink into the old, bad habit of wondering where Kyle was just then, what he was doing, and if he was wishing Stan was there with him.

He always thought of the summer before their senior year of high school as when things changed, but they had actually been changing all along, every year. There was never a static stretch in his and Kyle's closeness; since the day they met it had always been increasing exponentially, until one of them altered things enough to require a renegotiation of their friendship. That had only happened twice: when Stan turned ten years old and was so depressed that he was finally diagnosed as clinical, and again when they were fourteen years old and Kyle came out to Stan on Valentine's Day.

It wasn't a love confession directed at Stan, but Stan had arrogantly assumed that it might as well have been. They were in Stan's bedroom, talking after school. Kyle was clearly upset and pretending not to be. Stan kept needling him, gently, to say what was bothering him. Stan had been in therapy all throughout middle school, which was a secret that only Kyle knew, and he had been told, a lot, that talking about things helped. He wasn't sure that was true and had been overjoyed when his mother let him whittle his appointments to once a month for the purposes of having his antidepressant prescription refilled, but he knew Kyle well enough to understand that he kept things pent up until he burst, and that something was about to break free. Stan wanted for it to happen then and there, in the quiet of his bedroom with a heavy snowfall gliding steadily past his window, Kyle curled into a half-moon on his bed and already sniffling a little.

"You don't want to hear this," Kyle kept saying, avoiding Stan's eyes. "You'll be sorry that you have to deal with it, too."

"Dude, it's okay if you're gay," Stan had said, joking. "I don't care."

"Well," Kyle said, staring down at his hat, which he'd been worrying in his hands since he'd flopped onto Stan's bed. "I want you to care, because you're my best friend and it's important to me that you know exactly who I am."

He had said all of that in a mumbled rush, and it hit Stan in slow motion. Stan had assumed Kyle was going to lament about something Cartman had recently done and confess that it was still bothering him. At school, Kyle had gotten good at pretending that nothing got in past his cool exterior anymore, but Stan still saw all the cracks and meltdowns, and Cartman still had the ability to work a merciless chisel into Kyle's weak spots.

Stan had sat on the bed staring at Kyle after his confession, waiting to figure out what he should do or say about this. When tears streaked down Kyle's cheeks, Stan leaned over to pour himself around Kyle in a kind of shell-like hug, and he stayed that way while Kyle cried. Kyle didn't sound sad, just relieved and very tired, as if he'd finally set down something very heavy that he'd been carrying for years.

"It's okay," Stan had whispered, probably a hundred times. "I'm here, you're fine, everything's okay." He said this while privately praying that Kyle wouldn't try to kiss him. Stan hadn't cared much about the idea of having sex with anybody since he started on his medication, and he didn't want to break Kyle's heart. He wanted to put it back together, always, but not with his lips.

After that, Stan was the proud steward of Kyle's big secret, and eventually it felt like his secret, too, a special bond they had forged that night with a long, platonic hug. All throughout high school, Kyle confided in Stan about all matters relating to his sexuality: he'd tried watching gay porn and found it mostly upsetting, he'd been hurt by the f-word even when it wasn't directed at him, the erotic Avengers slash fiction he read online was mostly sub-par. He never confessed a crush or a kiss, and Stan assumed those things were reserved for him, though he also didn't want to confront how he might actually feel about them. He spent his first two years of high school in a state of pleasant semi-numbness, and only when he turned sixteen did he start questioning if his medication was right for him anymore. He'd taken to rushing through his appointments with his psychiatrist, nodding along and saying everything was normal, that he was feeling fine. He was, but he was also feeling a little disconnected, maybe too perennially fine to really be living. With his mother's permission, and under her careful observation, he decided to try to get through his junior year without medication.

He had been weaned off under the supervision of his psychiatrist, and even in the first few weeks with no medication at all, there wasn't a dramatic sea change. Certain experiences returned to him gradually, like boats spotted in the distance that slowly drew close enough for Stan to read the lettering on their hulls. He bottomed out a few times, told his mom and Kyle about it and was able to get through these as bad days instead of an enduring emotional flat-line. He started speaking up more in class, getting angrier about the things in the news that made Kyle angry, and smoking with Kenny when life stressed him out. He had random boners again, and explosively intense orgasms. When the only thing he could get off to were his fantasies about Kyle, he considered it a side effect of two years of being indifferent to sex while listening to Kyle reminisce about his personal gay porn habits and masturbatory concerns. It didn't seem like a big deal, because Stan still enjoyed looking at girls and regularly wanted to suck on tits. He liked the way girls smelled, and was turned off by dark body hair on guys. Kyle's body hair wasn't dark; it was actually kind of pretty, Stan realized, like a red-gold sheen that made him glow. The hair on Kyle's head smelled like autumn, somehow, and his skin was like creamy milk. Stan arrived at these conclusions slowly, at first with wonder and eventually with growing anxiety about what it all meant. As the summer after junior year began he was feeling like himself again, and also starting to wonder if he really knew who that was anymore.

He sat up in bed before he could get started on wallowing in his memories of that summer, how the whole universe seemed to have been nudging him toward Kyle the way Bebe had earlier that day. He checked his phone again and saw that he had time for a shower before the get-together. There were no new messages, which presumably meant no new murders. Twice, in the shower, he thought he heard his phone ringing and poked his head out from behind the curtain, but he was only imagining things. He jerked himself off with white-knuckled determination, thinking only of porn videos he'd seen. His orgasm was particularly fleeting, and it didn't do much to ease his jumpiness after a long, weird day that was probably about to get weirder.

Choosing an outfit was daunting, and all of Stan's clothes looked unimpressive compared with his uniform. He picked out a blue and black flannel shirt that Lola used to say made his eyes look nice and put it on over a pair of jeans that were just tight enough to show a bit of bulge. It had occurred to him before that he had never been on a real date; he and Lola were fuck buddies during his senior year, then she was pregnant, and since the divorce he'd just been sneaking around with the Kevins for sex, not taking them to the movies. His lack of dating history had depressed him in the past, but now it felt like a death sentence: he had sleep-walked past his chance for romantic love, first during his over-medicated adolescence and then during his friendly but passionless marriage, and now he was in his thirties, showcasing his bulge for a weeknight group dinner because a boy he'd once masturbated to would be there.

"Pathetic," he said, looking at his reflection, and he instantly felt bad. 'Don't be cruel to yourself' was an old lesson from therapy. Stan smoothed down his shirt, took a deep breath and shook his head. "Nah," he said. "You'll be fine." And then he felt pathetic again.

He made to Bennigan's at exactly eight o'clock, and was relieved to see that he wasn't the first one there. Bebe and Nicole were at a table to the left of the bar, waving him over.

"Hey there!" Nicole said, getting up to hug him in greeting. "How are you holding up?" she asked.

"I'm doing okay," Stan said. He took the seat beside hers, across from Bebe. There were three other chairs at the table, and Stan wondered if Kenny had convinced Craig to come after all. "You both look pretty," Stan said when Bebe gave him a tired smile.

"You, too," Bebe said. "Or handsome, I guess. Stan isn't a pretty man, really, is he?"

"Mhmm," Nicole said, leaning over to examine Stan's face. "Nah, more handsome. Seriously, Stan you look great."

"Did Kenny tell you that Kyle is coming?" Bebe asked, and Stan felt as if she was accusing him of looking great solely to impress Kyle. Stan nodded and drank from a glass of melty ice water that a bus boy had set down for him.

"Who else is coming?" Stan asked.

"Nobody, as far as I know," Bebe said. "Just him and Kenny."

"Bebe was just telling me that Token is still out in California," Nicole said. "But Kyle has moved back?"

"Not back," Stan said. "Just to Denver."

"Too bad you can't have both of your old flames here at the reunion," Bebe said, and Nicole laughed.

"I only ever had the one date with Kyle," she said. "And Cartman busted that right up. Is he still around?"

"Yes," Bebe said, groaning. "He owns a car dealership. Ironically, he's going to lose his license if he gets another DUI this year."

They ordered drinks and talked about the murders. Stan found himself tuning the conversation out, tired of pouring over the gory details and checking the door of the place every time he heard it open. Kenny arrived next, grinning on his way to the table and looking carefree as ever, despite the warning Stan had given him about Karen. He supposed it was kind of a stupid theory, really.

"Where's Kyle?" Stan asked when Kenny had taken a seat next to Bebe, ordered a beer, and slung his arm around the back of Bebe's chair.

"He's coming," Kenny said. "He texted me to say they would be late. Held up with work and so forth."

"They?" Stan said.

"Yeah, he wants to bring his partner, introduce him to everyone."

"What – that FBI asshole?" Stan was fuming already, an angry heat fogging up around the collar of his shirt. "Why?"

"It does seem strange," Bebe said. "The guy was a real prick to us earlier."

"Maybe he wants to apologize," Kenny said, and Stan scoffed, annoyed by his sunny magnanimity. "What?" Kenny said. "I don't think it's weird for Kyle to want us to meet his boyfriend."

"It's not his boyfriend!" Stan said, too loudly. "He said, I asked him. He said that guy is straight."

"Yeah, Kenny," Bebe said. "I don't think they're together."

"Oh, I just assumed," Kenny said, shrugging. "When he said partner, and that he wanted to bring him to dinner."

"Call him up and tell him not to bring that guy," Stan said. "That's stupid. It makes no sense. This is- we're all old friends, here, and he's-"

"Stan," Bebe said. "Calm down."

"I'm not- I am calm! You just said so yourself, it's a dumb fucking idea."

"Hey, man," Kenny said. "Drink some of your beer. You're all wound up."

"He hasn't been sleeping," Bebe said. "He won't let me lend him some sleeping pills to take the edge off, even after everything we've been through this week."

"I don't like pills," Stan muttered, and he gulped some beer. He checked the doorway as he did. It had become crowded with irritable-looking families who were waiting for tables.

Stan was unable to pay attention to the chit chat at the table, except when they debated whether or not to order or wait for Kyle and his partner to arrive. Stan insisted that he didn't care, though he was hungry, and angry, and hurt. Kyle would have to know that bringing that guy would hurt Stan's feelings, eat into their time together, and make everything between them more awkward. Apparently he didn't care.

Kyle and MacKenzie finally arrived forty minutes later, after the complimentary bread basket had been emptied and replenished three times. Stan had finished two beers and was working on a third. He knew that he should act nonchalant instead of glowering down at his crumb-filled plate, but he'd always had a hard time hiding his feelings around Kyle.

"I'm so sorry," Kyle said, sitting beside Bebe. MacKenzie took the seat across from him, next to Stan. "It's just been a whirlwind," Kyle said. "Trying to get caught up and dealing with the police Chief throwing roadblocks in our way."

"He's a spiteful little bastard," MacKenzie said, though Yates wasn't more than an inch or two shorter than him and was by no means thin. "Must be a pain in the ass to work for the guy."

"Actually," Bebe said, before Stan could blurt something in protest. "He's great. It's just been hard on the whole town, seeing this happen and knowing that the killer is still at large. I guess you wouldn't understand," she said. "If you're not from a small town."

Stan wanted to high five her. He gave Kyle a cursory glance, noting that he was still wearing the same suit and tie from earlier. He had taken a roll and was buttering it.

"I'm from Rhode Island," MacKenzie said. "I know about small towns. I hope you'll all trust that we're here to help, not to get in the way. I'm following Kyle's lead on this case, since he knows the terrain."

"I've made a lot of notes today," Kyle said. "And I still need to properly interview you and Bebe," he said, looking at Stan, who shrugged.

"My hunches haven't amounted to much so far," he said.

"But we've only just begun!" Kyle said, huffing. "These investigations can take years."

"Well, I guess you'd better move back to South Park, then," Stan said. Awkward silence followed, and Stan felt like an idiot. He drank from his beer and decided not to order another. When he'd set his glass down he peeked at Kyle, wanting to offer a non-verbal apology, but Kyle didn't look up from his menu.

As they were placing their orders, Stan saw someone approaching the table and withheld a groan when he realized it was Kevin Stoley-Donovan. Clyde was trailing behind him, looking confused as usual. Kevin looked angry.

"Ah, hey," Kenny said. "Kev, Clyde. How's it going?"

"Fine," Kevin said, surveying the faces at the table. "Nicole, wow. Long time no see."

"Heya," she said. "I'm in town for the serial killer story. Just found out I'm staying in the same dump as the FBI agents, so I guess I'll be well-protected."

"Uh-huh." Kevin stared down at Stan, who was overwhelmed by too many other minor ordeals to care much about Kevin being upset that he wasn't invited to this mini-reunion. "Clyde just got back from a major book tour," Kevin said, pulling Clyde forward. "We're here to celebrate his new contract with Dutton. That's the children's book division of Penguin," Kevin said, giving Stan another hateful look.

"Are you still writing about talking bananas?" Bebe asked.

"It's a talking banana, singular," Clyde said. "His name is Theodore. He's the only one of his kind."

"Theodore, ugh," Kyle said. "Why did you name it that?"

"Why not?"

"That's Cartman's middle name," Kyle said, muttering this into his wine glass before he drank from it.

"We were talking about Cartman before you got here," Nicole said. "Apparently he's still up to no good, endangering the public."

"Well," Kevin said, loudly. "I guess we'll go find a table. Sorry to interrupt your gathering."

Stan saw Kenny trying to hold in his laughter until Kevin and Clyde were out of earshot, and that set Stan off, too. He laughed into his beer glass, shaking his head.

"That was awkward," Kenny said.

"Why didn't you invite them?" Kyle asked. "I like Kevin."

"I didn't want to talk about Clyde's banana all night," Kenny said. "Plus, well." He glanced at Stan, and Stan wanted to kick him under the table, but MacKenzie would see if he did. "Anyway," Kenny said. "Um, what were we talking about?"

"Cartman," Kyle said, and he set his wine glass down hard. "And Nicole was mentioning that he's a public menace? I saw his record when we visited the station today. Five arrests for DUI? How are you people still letting him drive?"

"He spaces them out just enough," Bebe said. "There's a statute of limitations-"

"What were you doing looking at Cartman's criminal record?" Stan asked. Kyle scoffed.

"Are you joking?" he said. "Until we have a better lead, he's my number one suspect."

"Cartman?" Stan laughed. "He's a drunken buffoon who can't even take a piss in public without making a scene and getting caught. If he murdered someone he'd probably pass out next to their corpse with blood all over his hands."

"Regardless," Kyle said, beginning to get red. "He's a violent sociopath with a history of abusive behavior. That makes him worth looking into for this, or any other nefarious business that should happen within a hundred miles of him."

"Who did Cartman abuse?" Kenny asked. "Butters?"

Kyle drank from his wine glass and said nothing, his face very red now. Cartman had given Kyle hell when they were kids, but Stan wasn't sure that Kyle would want him to mention it. Kenny's mind had probably gone to Butters because he thought of domestic situations when he heard the word abuse, understandably. That didn't mean he'd forgotten what Kyle went through with Cartman when they were kids.

"Seriously, dude," Stan said, wanting Kyle to look at him again, or anyone. "Don't waste your time researching that idiot. He's a blight on society, sure, but he never got past murdering his stuffed animals."

"Well," Bebe said. "There was the whole Tenorman thing, too."

"Right," Stan said. "But that was before he started drinking. These days, I can't imagine him having the patience to plan anything other than his next trip to the liquor store."

"Okay," Kyle said, standing. He threw his napkin on the table. "Just, no, okay. I have to leave. This was a bad idea." He took out his wallet and began rifling through the billfold. His hands were shaking.

"Kyle," Stan said. "What-"

"Brof-ski," Mac said, not in protest but with a kind of gentle sympathy that made Stan boggle at him with disgust. Mac didn't seem to notice. He stood when Kyle threw ten dollars onto the table.

"That should cover the wine," Kyle said, still avoiding everyone's eyes. "Goodnight."

"Whoa, wait a second," Kenny said. "What's the matter?"

Kyle walked away from the table, hurried toward the door and pushed through the throng of waiting families on his way out of the restaurant. Mac sighed and tossed his own napkin down beside Kyle's.

"It's hard for him to be back here," Mac said, his gaze skipping from person to person at the table, as if to pass the blame around. He locked eyes with Stan last. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll make sure he's okay."

"What just _happened_?" Bebe asked, opening her palms on the table. "I don't understand."

"Don't worry about it," Mac said. "We'll see you around, I'm sure, during the investigation. Kyle will be fine."

Mac turned and left. He didn't seem to be in a hurry, as if he knew Kyle was waiting for him outside, in their shared rental car. Stan wanted to get up, grab Mac, and tell him that he had some fucking nerve thinking he could decide if Kyle was fine or not. Nobody but Stan could ever know that, because Stan knew Kyle best.

Stan stayed in his seat, defeated by the awareness that he couldn't make that claim anymore. He finished his beer and ordered another. He'd have Kenny drive him home, or maybe back to Kenny's place, where Stan had a standing invitation to crash on the upstairs couch. Stan really didn't want to sleep above a morgue, but he'd rather do that than sleep alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Updating on schedule this time, yeahh! I'm sure the upcoming holidays will include interruptions, but I hope to update this at least once before the end of the year, and then I should be able to do regular, weekly updates (I hope). Thanks for reading, and feel free to let me know your thoughts as you do!

* * *

><p>Stan ended up on Bebe's couch instead of Kenny's, and he woke up early, shivering under a velvety throw blanket that wasn't doing much to keep out the cold. Kenny had stayed over, too, and Stan could hear the low rumble of his voice from Bebe's bedroom as he dressed to leave. Bebe's responses were brief and quiet; she was not a morning person. Stan had heard them having sex last night, and while it was the kind of thing that probably should have made him feel even more lonely, he didn't mind. He was beginning to wonder if he should discuss his recent problems with being alone when his mandatory counseling sessions began at work. So far he had been putting that off.<p>

He pretended to be asleep when Kenny moved through the living room, not in the mood to talk. Kenny put his shoes on in the kitchen and left, locking the door behind him. Stan wasn't aware that Kenny still had a key to Bebe's apartment. He would grill Bebe about it later, or maybe he would just let it lie. Some people just couldn't manage to leave each other's orbit, and Stan was more jealous of their persisting connection than the sex he'd overheard last night.

He kept his face pressed against the couch cushions, eyes shut tightly, and wondered if Kyle had spent the night in MacKenzie's room at the Travelodge, leaning on him for friendly comfort. Stan had called Kyle three times after leaving the restaurant, and he had left one drunken voicemail message that he could only halfway remember. It was something about the night Stan drove Cartman home from Skeeter's, and what Cartman had mumbled about the dark woods around South Park. Stan was sure that his own mumbled recollection of that evening made even less sense, and hearing that voicemail would probably upset Kyle further. That seemed to be all Stan could do for Kyle anymore.

Stan tried not to think about what his life would be like if he had done things differently that summer, before the start of their senior year in high school. If things had been different between him and Kyle during the school year, he wouldn't have slept with Lola, and he wouldn't have his kids. He loved them so much that the thought was horrifying, but it still hurt to remember how easily he could have changed everything, how closely Kyle had orbited him that summer, and how Stan would have only had to stretch his fingertips out to close that last, ever-narrowing space between them.

It had started in June. Kyle seemed to fall asleep in Stan's room almost every night, and they were old enough, and free enough without the burdens of homework, to do this without their parents caring or even noticing, half the time. They didn't even have summer jobs that year, though they talked vaguely about getting some a couple of times. Stan had finally gotten the new Zelda game, and it was their tradition to play through every iteration of Zelda together, taking turns as they muscled their Link through each fortress that stood in his way. This seemed to provide all the entertainment they would need, because when they weren't playing the game they were just lying around talking, laughing, and napping together. All of that was free, so they stopped even talking about getting jobs by the start of July.

The TV in Stan's bedroom that was connected to his game system was directly across from his bed, on top of his dresser. When they played games, Stan pushed the dresser up against the end of his bed so that he could mound pillows against the headboard and stretch out on his back while he played, Kyle beside him and waiting for his turn. The bed started to feel like their personal portal into the world on screen, and they often fell asleep there directly after playing, Stan curled toward the wall with Kyle's spine curved against his back. It was a twin bed, but Stan never felt cramped. He dreamed about the game a lot that summer, and in some of these dreams Kyle walked the world map with him, helping Stan keep an eye out for surprise attacks. It was always a relief to wake up and find the real Kyle there, huddled up next to him as if they were sharing a tent on the grassy plains outside the Hyrulian castle.

When Stan woke up to the feeling of Kyle cuddled up against him some nights, he liked it. He'd always gotten high on making Kyle feel safe. He tried sliding his arms around Kyle, gently, so he wouldn't wake him, and he liked that, too. By the start of August they were rolling into each others arms as soon as the TV screen went dark, and sometimes they stayed up talking like that, Kyle's hand moving idly on Stan's bare back while Stan ran his fingers through Kyle's curls. Stan was always just waiting for Kyle to talk about it, or do something more, and when he didn't, it was a relief. Stan wasn't sure he wanted to suck on Kyle's tongue, and he was damn sure he didn't want to suck anybody's dick. They were just close, he decided. They were special, different but still mostly normal, and this was their secret, just like Kyle's sexuality felt like Stan's secret, too. He still masturbated to thoughts of Kyle in the shower, but it wasn't him fucking Kyle in his fantasies. It was some faceless, partially disembodied gay sex force that was making Kyle moan and come all over himself. Not Stan, personally.

On the morning when everything changed, Stan woke from a dream about the game that wasn't as pleasant as the usual ones. This one involved fire and swords clashing, blood. Before they fell asleep, he and Kyle had been working on the final dungeon, approaching the last boss. There was a drizzle of rain sliding down the window when Stan cracked his eyes open, but he could only hear it, couldn't see it. Kyle was filling his vision, shifting against Stan in nervous twitches and breathing little sighs onto Stan's face. Stan stayed still and allowed himself to take this in slowly, surprised but not alarmed to see that Kyle was so close. They didn't usually bump noses, but that was what Kyle was doing now, nudging Stan awake as he moved even closer, his eyelashes tickling Stan's cheek. He was smiling, so Stan smiled, too.

"Do you want to?" Kyle asked, whispering. They were so close that Stan felt like the words had come not just from Kyle but from both of them, and he knew exactly what Kyle was asking. _Kiss me, Stan, do you want to kiss me?_

"What?" Stan said, though he understood perfectly. He turned red and stayed motionless, knowing that Kyle would see through his fake confusion. In hindsight, he would realize that the cruelest thing he'd done that morning was lie there, still pressed against Kyle, so that Kyle had to be the one who moved away.

Kyle rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling, taking measured breaths through his nose. Just as Stan decided that he should do it, kiss him, and figure out what it meant about him and them and everything else afterward, Kyle sat up and pulled away.

"I have to pee," Kyle said, mumbling. He left for the bathroom across the hall and was gone for a long time, almost half an hour. When he came back, the force field was already up. Kyle started 'interning' at his dad's office later that week, which became his perennial excuse not to hang out, and Stan never did beat that Zelda game.

For the lonely remainder of the summer, Stan felt broody and rejected as he constantly turned kissing Kyle over in his head like a coin. On one side everything was sweetness and excitement, the idea of the blankets on Stan's bed closing them into a cocoon that was more private than anything they had shared before. On the other was the idea of Kyle as his boyfriend, and the idea of himself as gay, which seemed like it would involve inviting the whole town into their cocoon. Stan knew Kyle wouldn't be okay with hiding for long, and this suspicion was confirmed when Kyle came out to everyone at school at the start of their senior year.

Though he was aware that it was absurd and unfair, Stan couldn't help feeling betrayed by Kyle's decision to come out without consulting him first. It was as if Kyle had taken the gift of his secret away from Stan and flung it to the masses. In an equally irrational way, Stan also felt exposed, and nervous that people would make assumptions about him based on Kyle's sexuality. Cartman made sure to do so, loudly, at the earliest opportunity. Stan had no problem with other people being gay, but the idea that his own attraction to not just Kyle but _men_, generally, could have sneaked up on him during his medicated adolescence was not only alarming but felt incorrect.

When Lola flirted with him in Chemistry lab, he decided to test his theory by asking her to hang out. He was excited when she agreed, a little anxious and uncomfortable on their date, but his cock was totally on board when they had sex in the backseat of her car. Everything about Lola was a relief, and even the boring stretches seemed to confirm that this was how love should feel: calm, settled, ordinary, and not like a dream about a video game. Even so, even in the darkest depths of Stan's denial, he never managed to fool himself that he was in love with her. 'In love' also didn't seem like an accurate way to describe his feelings for Kyle, which were mostly angry, hurt, and possessive, with a large portion of guilt heaped over everything.

"Breakfast?" Bebe called from the kitchen when Stan woke again, this time from hazy half-dreams about Kyle and that summer. He sat up and blinked at Bebe, wanting to go back to sleep with his memories and regrets cuddled up against him like company.

"I heard Kenny leave," Stan said when he walked into the kitchen, wondering what had become of his blue and black flannel. He was in his undershirt and jeans, shivering. Bebe was wearing a short, silky robe. She had full thighs and the kind of perfectly round ass that reminded Stan he was still attracted to women, too, though the newly exhilarating freedom of allowing himself to sleep with men had him tipping in that direction, lately.

"Are you waiting for a play-by-play?" Bebe said, glancing at Stan when he stood there in silence near the kitchen table. "Yeah, Kenny was here last night. We had fun, so what?"

"Nothing, I. Look, I can't stand in judgment of anyone's fun, so."

"That's right, you can't. Was it weird to see Kevin with Clyde last night?"

"No. I need to break it off with Kevin, he doesn't even like me. The McCormicks, though. They make for ideal fuck buddies." Stan felt bad for both Kenny and Kevin, saying it that way, though he'd only done so to see Bebe's reaction. She turned from the English muffin she was slicing and gave him a look.

"Kenny's not in love with me," she said. "Nobody's getting their feelings hurt, here."

"Okay."

"I don't have to get married just because I'm in my thirties now. Marriage is not always the answer."

"I know that, Jesus. But what- What's the question that marriage is not the answer to? Why aren't you two, just, like. Together?"

"I don't know, Stan." Bebe turned back to her breakfast preparations, and Stan could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was about to let herself say something harsh. "Why were you never 'just' with Kyle? It's not always as simple as it looks from the outside."

Stan said nothing, because he still wasn't sure there was a concrete answer for why he didn't kiss Kyle that morning, and why he didn't run over to Kyle's house at any other time before Lola's pregnancy and sweep him off his feet. He didn't even regret how he handled things now, and not just because of the kids. If he'd actually made a move back then, he would have screwed things up between them even worse.

"I was fucked up," Stan said. "Unstable, uh. You know I had to go back on Paxil when Wayne was a toddler."

"What does that have to do with Kyle?" Bebe made an incredulous noise in the direction of her English muffin, her back still turned on Stan. "You're so weird about him," she said. "You always have been, and I didn't think it would happen again if he came back- well, I never thought he would come back, but. It's like you want him riding in your pocket, but then you hate him for trying to climb in."

"You are making zero sense," Stan said.

"Whatever." Bebe popped the muffin into the toaster and turned to look at him. "Kyle seems fucked up, too. In some other way. What the hell was that about last night at the restaurant? You really don't know?"

"I really don't, Bebe. And he hasn't returned my calls."

"Do you think he's onto something about Cartman?"

"Is that a serious question?"

"Well, he's not wrong! Cartman is capable of evil, certainly."

"Sure," Stan said, swallowing down a bad feeling about what happened last night. He dug his phone out to make sure, again, that Kyle hadn't called. "But it didn't _feel_ like Cartman at those crime scenes. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Bebe said. She sighed and got out two mugs for coffee. "You want some?" she asked.

"I do, thanks."

"Sorry I- sorry. I don't mean to beat you up about Kyle."

"Sorry I'm nosy about Kenny," Stan said, getting up to fetch the milk from her fridge. "If you're happy with things the way they are, that's great."

"It's complicated," Bebe said, mumbling. "Do you want an English muffin?"

"Sure," Stan said. He bolted back to the table when he heard his phone ring, but it wasn't Kyle. "Fuck," he said when he saw the screen. "Gary's calling me."

"Gary - Harrison?"

"Yeah."

"You'd better answer."

"I know. Fuck, okay."

Stan walked into the other room and put the phone to his ear, bracing himself to confront Gary's grief. Though he'd never felt as close to Gary as he had to Kenny and Kyle, there was something about Gary that Stan had truly admired, and it had to do with the sincere and seemingly unbreakable cheer that his whole family represented. Now someone had thrown a brick through the placid surface of the Harrison family happiness, and it had taken one of them down with it, forever, to the muddy bottom.

"Gary," Stan said, breathing his name out like a kind of apology. "Hey."

"Hi, Stan." Gary sounded tired but still warm, like he didn't want to spread his misery around. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm back in town and ready to help in any way I can."

"I'm so sorry," Stan said. "So sorry, Gary. We're going to catch this guy. This person. We've got, um. The FBI has come to help. You probably know that."

"They've spoken to my father." Gary sighed. "And thank you for your sympathies. We've been praying with Melissa all morning, and the children. We know he's with God now. It's a comfort."

"Yeah," Stan said, and he wished he were less groggy, more eloquent. "It's. I just can't believe this is happening."

"It's surreal," Gary said. "Even for South Park. I'm going to stay in town for a while, until Melissa decides what she wants to do. This is the children's home, but it's also where their father, ah."

"Right. Jesus. Listen, while you're town, we should meet up. I'm sure you've got interviews scheduled with the FBI?" Stan thought of Kyle and hoped he would be gentle with Gary. Kyle had never liked him much.

"They haven't asked to speak with me specifically," Gary said. "My father said the agent in charge of the investigation is called Broflovski. Any relation to Kyle?"

"It is Kyle, he's. Here, for now."

"Oh, wow. I suppose I did know he'd joined the FBI. Well, that's a relief. He was always so smart. But yes, let's get together soon. I've missed you- I hope you're well?"

"I'm okay. Just call me anytime you're free, I'd love to see you."

"I might be busy with the family until Saturday," Gary said. "That's the day we're having the funeral. Kenny has been very kind in helping with the arrangements this morning."

"Good." So that was where Kenny was hurrying off to at the crack of dawn. "I'll come, um. Unless it's Mormons only?"

"Certainly not - you'd be welcome, Stan."

Stan walked back into the kitchen, again stuck on the idea that Craig and Gary had both returned to town because of the murder of a younger sibling. It wasn't something that should be discounted, but he couldn't make any sense of it beyond what it was on a its face: a small town, a coincidence. He saw his flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair and pulled it on, still cold.

"Here," Bebe said, pushing a small plate with a buttered English muffin into Stan's hand. "How'd Gary sound?"

"Like he sincerely believes in heaven."

"Oh. Good."

"I'm gonna eat this in the car," Stan said, transferring the muffin to a paper towel. "I want to see if I can drive the kids to school. What time is it?"

"Almost eight. See you later, on shift?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Kyle wants to interview us about the murders today," Bebe said. She held up her cell phone and gave Stan a sympathetic look. "He just texted me. Three o'clock."

"Good." Stan checked his own phone, and there was still nothing from Kyle. "That's good, um. I'm glad he's feeling. Better, I guess?"

"Who can tell? Should be interesting."

Stan kissed her cheek and grabbed his jacket on the way out. The cold shocked him, and he closed his jacket around himself, wishing he hadn't left his car at Bennigan's. The walk was only a mile and a half, but he felt like an idiot, humping along the side of the road while cars passed him by. He kept waiting to see red hair in the passenger seat, Mac at the wheel, the car slowing down so they could both rightfully stare at him like he was a hungover wreck. He made it to his car without being spotted by them or anyone else he knew, as far as he could tell, and he called Lola while the car idled in the otherwise empty Bennigan's lot, the heat slowly starting to kick in. She told him it would be fine for him to drive the kids in, but he would have to hurry or they would be late.

"Kyle's back in town," Stan said, not sure how sensitive she would be to this news. "For work, about the murders. He's with the FBI."

"Red haired Kyle?" she said. "From school?"

"Was there - another Kyle?"

"Yeah, no, just. I don't know, he's someone from another lifetime."

"True," Stan said, though it didn't feel that way to him. It was more like he had returned to his previous and in some ways still more familiar lifetime, that brutal autumn and winter after the summer he spent in bed with Kyle and the video game controllers.

The kids were coming out the door of Lola's house when Stan pulled into the driveway, Evan dressed in a puffy purple coat and Wayne wearing only a thin windbreaker. Stan didn't mention it when Wayne climbed into the backseat, Evan taking the front. He remembered what it was like to be thirteen, a native Coloradan, and to need to pretend for as long as you could that the cold wasn't bad enough for real winter gear yet.

"Why are you driving us?" Wayne asked.

"Because it's safer," Evan said. "Daddy has a gun."

"That's not why," Stan said. "I just wanted to see you guys, and I was up early and not on shift, so here I am. Are you, uh. Worried? You don't feel safe at Mommy's house?"

"You should stay with us until they catch the murderer," Evan said, not exactly answering the question.

"I feel safe there," Wayne said. "I can watch them."

"Watch them?" Stan said, peering into the rear view mirror. Wayne shrugged.

"Mom and Evie," he said.

"You don't have a gun," Evan said. "Dad. Are you going to give Wayne a gun?"

"No, of course not. Kids can't-"

"Are you gonna give one to Mom? From your work?"

"No! Evan, stop it about the guns, okay? You're safe. Mom and Wayne can- These people, the ones who died, they're older. Certain, uh. Certain criminals go after kids. This is not one of those kinds of bad guys." He didn't feel confident about this or that he shouldn't stay with Lola and the kids until the case was cracked, but in the meantime there was no reason to alarm his daughter, who was staring at him and fidgeting with her seat belt.

"Who do you think is doing it?" Wayne asked. He was trying to sound cool, interested, but Stan could see that he was a little scared, too, also fidgeting.

"We don't know yet," Stan said. "But we've got big-time guys from Denver here to help us with things now." It hurt his pride a little to say so, but Bebe had been right the other day. It didn't matter who solved this, as long as people stopped getting killed. "Between us and them, we'll figure it out."

Evan gave him a hug and a kiss before climbing out of the car at the elementary school. Stan watched until she had dashed in through the front doors, waving to the security guard and teacher chaperone who were posted there. He glanced into the back seat and gave Wayne a hopeful smile.

"Want to ride up front?" he asked.

"It's okay," Wayne said. "Are you sick?"

"Huh? No, buddy, I'm fine. Why?"

"You look like you have a cold or something."

"I haven't been sleeping too great," Stan said. He turned back around and pulled away from the elementary school. "School going okay for you?" he asked.

"It's boring," Wayne said. He leaned forward a little, his elbows on his knees. "Do you think it's somebody we know?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Me and my friends were talking, like. If somebody is killing people in South Park, don't they live here, too? And between me and my friends, we were thinking, one of us probably knows the killer. I mean, it could be the guy who works at the gas station, or one of our teachers, or somebody's uncle-"

"That's-" Stan shook his head. "That's not necessarily what's going on here."

"Who do you think it is? Just some stranger? Why'd they pick South Park?"

"Wayne, we don't know that much about anything yet. The investigation just started. These things can take years."

"Years? With people dying every three days? We'll all be wiped out before you catch him, at that rate!"

"I don't think somebody's going to die every three days. How, um. Are you sleeping okay? Are you worrying about this, you and your friends-"

"It's not worry." Wayne sat back and yanked his bookbag into his lap. They were approaching the middle school. "It's just interesting."

"It's sad," Stan said. "The last victim had a wife and two kids. Little kids, and now."

"Is that why you drove us to school today?" Wayne asked as Stan pulled up to the front entrance of the middle school.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean - never mind." Wayne slumped toward the window and stared glumly at his school. There was no security guard posted here, no chaperone waiting outside, but Stan could see the receptionist in the front office.

"South Park is still safe for kids," he said, speaking mostly to himself. "Just don't go wandering around on your own. Not ever, Wayne, not anywhere. You and Paul, in the woods that night-"

"Oh my god, stop!" Wayne said. "I know, okay! It was one time! And what, you never wandered around on your own when you were my age? Ever?"

Stan could confidently say that no, he hadn't. He'd always been with Kyle. He kept his mouth shut and watched Wayne climb out.

"Hey," he said, putting his window down. Wayne made an exasperated sound, but he turned, looking so vulnerable as he stood between Stan's car and the school that Stan wanted to order him back into the car again. "I know you're a good kid," Stan said. "I just want you to be careful. I love you, alright?"

"Alright," Wayne said, mildly enough that it felt like an admission that he loved Stan back. "Bye."

Stan went home, showered, and put on his uniform. He got coffee as soon as he was at the station, and sat down with the paperwork that would occupy him until he and Bebe went out on patrol in an hour. She was on the phone at her desk, speaking softly into the receiver. She looked well-rested enough, despite or maybe because of the night spent with Kenny. Stan thought of Wayne saying he looked like he had a cold, and Kyle telling Kenny that he seemed unwell. He had an email from HR in his inbox, reminding him about the mandatory counseling. Surely at bigger and busier precincts, in New York and D.C., there was no such thing required after dead bodies turned up on the job. Stan didn't delete the email, but he didn't click the link that prompted him to request an appointment.

The day's patrol was busy but mundane, and Stan noticed as he drove around the town with Bebe that South Park already seemed more crowded with strangers than it had after Ruby's murder. News vans lingered, and the FBI presence felt obvious to him, everywhere they went, though there couldn't have been more than six agents in the field at the Harrison crime scene, and some of them had probably gone back to Denver with evidence and photos by now. He supposed he was just looking for Kyle, afraid to be ambushed by his searing-bright presence again.

"We've got a report of a possible 910 over at 32 Sycamore," the dispatcher radioed after Stan and Bebe had finished eating their City Wok lunch specials in the front seat of the car, watching for speeders near the restaurant. "The 911 call was from Linda Stotch," the dispatcher added. "So take that into account."

"Ten-four," Bebe said, and she groaned. Stan put the sirens on and peeled out onto the road, feeling defensive on Mrs. Stotch's behalf, though it was true that she often imagined things and seemed to have 911 on speed dial. Still, they had to take her seriously, and now more than ever. There were strange folk about, and at least one murderer at large. "Bet you ten bucks it's a squirrel," Bebe said when she noticed Stan's serious expression.

"C'mon," he said. "She's a woman living alone. I'm sure she's seen the news. She's probably scared out of her mind, uh. More so than usual."

"I asked Kenny when Butters was going to come back and do something about her," Bebe said. "He says Butters is dithering."

"Dithering?"

"That's the word he used, yeah."

"That's a very Butters-appropriate word, actually."

"Yeah," Bebe said. "Kenny can be surprisingly good at coming up with the right words."

Stan decided to leave that alone for now. He thought of Kyle in Denver, hearing about Stan's divorce and peering down at his cell phone, talking himself out of calling, telling himself Stan wouldn't want to hear from him, wondering how he was doing and what had finally emancipated him from his marriage. Dithering. The word didn't fit Kyle as well; Stan could hardly blame him for hesitating.

"Shit," Stan said. "I am an asshole, you're right."

"Huh?" Bebe said.

"To Kyle. Never mind."

They were unable to locate the reported prowler at Mrs. Stotch's house, and they found no signs of an attempted break-in. When they asked her what she'd seen and heard precisely, she seemed confused.

"He has chestnut brown eyes," she said, standing in the doorway of her house and frowning out at them. "Brown eyes - wait, I said that already. Brown hair, I mean, and he's about my height-"

"The prowler?" Bebe said. "You saw him?"

"Prowler? What prowler, no- My husband Stephen, he's missing. Aren't you people going to do something about it? There's a killer on the loose, for heaven's sake!"

"Linda," Bebe said, snapping her report notebook shut. "Would you like me to call up Butters for you? Maybe he should stay with you, if you're feeling nervous about the murders."

"He goes to the gentleman's club sometimes," Linda said, lowering her voice. "Butters saw him there once, when he was young. Is that place still open?" She seemed to grow more lucid after asking, and she frowned again. "You people ought to shut it down. What goes on there can't be legal."

"Make sure all your doors are locked after we've left," Stan said. Bebe was already walking back to the car. "And don't hesitate to call us if you see anything, um. Anybody on your property, looking suspicious."

"You probably go to that place yourself," Linda said. She sniffed angrily and slammed the door on Stan.

He walked back to the car feeling struck, and Bebe shook her head when he climbed in behind the driver's seat.

"I'm going to tell Kenny to call Butters," she said. "This can't go on- She's going to end up hurting herself."

"The place looked immaculate," Stan said. "It's like she can turn it on and off."

"What, her sanity?"

"Yeah. Do you think she knows I sleep with men?"

"What!" Bebe barked a laugh and shook her head. "No, Stan. Why?"

"She just. I don't know, she looked at me like she knew, and then she accused me of going to that gay sex club. That thing's not still open, is it?"

"The one next to the dirty movie theater? No, all that stuff's gone. We don't even have a gay bar anymore, do we?"

"You're asking me?" Stan said, and he turned on the car. "All we have is Skeeter's, as far as I know."

"Shit," Bebe said. "It's two thirty."

"I know what time it is," Stan said, mumbling. "Where are we meeting Kyle for this interview?"

"At the station. I figured that was, like. The most professional place to do it."

"Right."

Back at the station, Stan was jumpy while he waited for Kyle to arrive, the cheap Chinese food sitting uncomfortably on his stomach. He felt like Kyle would be interviewing him not on the the crime scenes but on what had happened back then, or not happened.

"Why are you doing this?" Kyle had said on the morning of Stan's wedding, after Stan had thrown up for the second time.

"Because it's the right thing to do," Stan said, his head still in the toilet. He'd meant because of the baby, because he was going to be a father so he might as well try to be a husband, but when he looked up he could see that Kyle had heard this like an admission that Stan thought Kyle was, simultaneously, the wrong thing to do. Stan was too ill and doomed and tongue-tied to say otherwise, so they went to the altar together with that hanging between them, and Kyle stopped answering Stan's emails a few months into his first semester away at college. It was a gradual, friendly, growing disinterest in Stan's miserable new life, and it hurt worse than a dramatic blowup would have.

"He's here," Bebe said, coming to Stan's desk, and he snapped out of it, stood up. Kyle was signing in at the reception desk, bending at the waist and writing carefully. His suit was dark grey, and his tie was black. He smiled at Bebe and Stan mildly as a rookie officer led him to their desks.

"Do you have a conference room where we can do this?" Kyle asked. He was carrying a black briefcase that looked expensive.

"We have a booking room," Bebe said. "Not much in the way of atmosphere, but it's quiet."

"That will be fine," Kyle said. He wasn't looking at Stan much, and his faint smile seemed weird, for the occasion. They filed into the booking room, Stan dragging an extra chair in behind him. Kyle sat on one side of the metal table in the center of the room, and Stan and Bebe took the other side. There was a pair of open cuffs looped around the bar in the middle of the table. Stan wanted to get rid of them, but he felt like doing so would be childish in some way. He watched Kyle open his briefcase and arrange his things: a slim voice recorder, a yellow eight-by-ten notepad, and a black pen that he uncapped and set beside the pad. He took off his suit jacket, revealing navy suspenders underneath. Stan heard Bebe bite down on a laugh as Kyle hung the jacket carefully on the back of his chair. Stan didn't see what was funny. The suspenders were cute. Everything about this whole ritual was, and it gave him an unexpected thrill to see that Kyle carried his gun at his hip, on a subtle belt holster. Stan hadn't noticed the bulge under his suit jacket.

"Do you want coffee?" Stan asked, though it seemed like a stupid question. Kyle shook his head.

"I have to stop drinking coffee at noon," he said. "Or I'll chug it all day."

"I drink too much of it," Stan said. He had to fight the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, feeling like an idiot. Kyle cleared his throat and touched his fingertips to his yellow notepad.

"Before I turn on the recorder," he said. "I'd like to apologize to you both for last night. Me and Mac had left Denver at three in the morning, and I was in the field all day. I didn't eat as well as I should have, because I was overwhelmed with work, so my blood sugar was screwy. I shouldn't have pushed myself to go out, but I didn't want you all to think, um. That I didn't want to see you."

"Kyle, it's fine," Bebe said. "Really."

"That wine went right to my head on a mostly empty stomach," Kyle said. He was still looking down at the notebook, touching it lightly. "Hence my dramatic exit. Sorry." When he raised his eyes he was looking at Stan.

"It's okay," Stan said. "We were just. I called you, um. I think I left a weird message."

"Anyway," Kyle said, waving his hand over the notepad. "Let's get started."

Kyle asked them about the call to the crime scene, their approach to the building, why they felt something was off when they got there. Stan let Bebe do most of the talking. He nodded along with her, muttering his input here and there. It was all in his report, anyway. Mostly he watched Kyle, staring at the fine red hair on his wrists, which peeked out from the cuffs of his shirt when he rolled them back a bit. Kyle's fingers were tense when he took notes, and his writing was just as Stan remembered it from the notes he'd borrowed in high school: small, precise, making efficient use of space on the paper.

"At the diner yesterday," Kyle said, and Stan's attention returned to the conversation. "Stan mentioned that he saw the number two in the slashes on David's body, whereas Ruby's wounds were three horizontal lines. I just want to include that in the official interview transcript," he said, glancing up at Bebe before turning his gaze on Stan. "It's an excellent observation, whether it means anything or not."

"You would have seen it eventually," Stan said.

"But maybe not until we found the next victim," Kyle said.

"Jesus," Bebe said. "You're sure there's going to be another one?"

"Sure? Of course not. But this kind of ritualized killing is rarely limited to two victims. We're going to need you all to be incredibly attentive to your patrols in the coming weeks, and meticulous in your response to any disturbances."

"We always are," Stan said, offended. "We just spent an hour poking around Linda Stotch's place because she called us about some vague prowler she may or may not have heard in her backyard."

"Linda Stotch." Kyle frowned. "Did you find any evidence of an intruder?"

"Nah," Bebe said. "Nothing, and we really did look the place over well, just in case. But she's a lonely fruit bat who barely knows what's going on, as far as we can tell. She once called 911 to complain that an acorn hit the roof of her car."

"Christ." Kyle turned off the recorder and tapped his pen against his thumb. "What's Butters doing about this?"

"Nothing," Stan said. "He lives in Vermont. I think he might be married?"

"To a man or a woman?" Kyle asked, looking alarmed.

"I don't think he's married," Bebe said. "He's not really in touch with any of us except Kenny, and just barely with him. I'm going to try to get Kenny to encourage him to come home. I thought there was some rumor that he'd be back soon?"

"Don't look at me," Stan said. "I hear all my rumors from you, after you hear them from Kenny."

"Does it still feel like that here?" Kyle asked, his fingertip hovering over the 'record' button on his device. "Like. Everybody knows everybody else's business, more or less? Eventually?"

"It's still a small town," Bebe said. "But, come to think of it- no, not really. Not as much as when we were kids. People are a little more closed off. I'm not sure why."

There was a knock on the booking room door, and Stan jumped a bit, in the same instant that Kyle did.

"Come in," Kyle called, as if this was his personal office. The door opened, and the rookie officer who had led Kyle back poked his head in.

"Are you guys almost done?" he asked. "We just got a call about some kids trespassing up at the old Mephesto lab. Me and Durham would take it, but, uh, last time we got a call about teenage hoodlums they were kids we were in school with just a few years back, and it got, kind of, more heated than it should have-"

"I think we're done," Bebe said. Stan turned back toward Kyle and rolled his eyes. Bebe was too easy on the especially baby-faced rookies, and this kid was one of them. "Kyle?" Bebe said. "You have all the info you need?"

"For now, yes," he said, nodding. "I'll be back in touch, of course, as the investigation progresses. Um, if there are questions."

"What's the nature of the complaint?" Stan asked, annoyed that some teenagers making trouble up on the mountain had shortened his time with Kyle.

"Just the usual from that old lady who lives at the foot of the mountain," the rookie said. "Kids laughing, driving up that dangerous old road, breaking windows up there."

"Kids still do that?" Kyle said. He was putting away his things. Stan watched, waiting for Kyle to meet his eyes.

"Yeah," Stan said when Kyle looked up. "They still do."

Kyle shrugged his jacket on and followed Stan and Bebe out through the station. He seemed impervious to the angry stare that Yates was giving him as he passed by. Outside, the daylight was already beginning to fade. Stan could smell a chimney fire somewhere in the distance, and he thought of his uncle Jimbo's cabin out in the woods, not far from the Mephesto lab. He stood watching a jet trail streaking through the sky, just where the pale of the afternoon met the deepening blue, like a seam. He was aware of Kyle standing beside him, and of Bebe dawdling near the car, bending down to see her reflection in the window while she adjusted her messy ponytail. It was like she was trying to give them a moment to say goodbye, as if this might be the last time Stan saw Kyle while he was in town.

"I was thinking," Kyle said, and Stan turned to him too eagerly, wondering if he was chilly in that thin suit jacket. "I could come with you guys. Ride up to the old lab with you, I mean. I'm on dinner break until six, and I. I'm still trying to get a feel for the town, you know, again. Just riding with you on a low-key call might help."

"Yeah," Stan said. He'd been ready to agree six words in. "What do you carry?" he asked.

"It's just a Glock 22," Kyle said, pulling his jacket back to show Stan his gun. "Yours is M&P, I assume?"

"Yeah, a forty. I've got a Remington in the car, too."

Kyle raised his eyebrows. "You think we're going to need to draw weapons on this call?"

"Oh, no, Jesus, I just. Noticed, uh. In the booking room, when you took off your blazer."

"It's not a blazer."

"Didn't you bring a real coat from Denver?" Stan asked. "It's gonna get cold soon, dude. What?" he said when Kyle just grinned at him.

"Nothing." Kyle looked away, toward Stan's car. "You still call me 'dude.' I think that's the third time now."

"You've been counting?" Stan couldn't stop himself from beaming, only gloating a little. Kyle shoved him toward the car.

Stan drove, and he mostly stayed quiet while Kyle and Bebe talked, exchanging the animated gossip that Kyle had missed out on when he rushed away from the restaurant the night before.

"I'm surprised Kenny is still single," Kyle said at one point. "Maybe it's the mortician thing? Women don't want to live in a funeral home?"  
>"It's not that," Bebe said. Stan looked over at her in surprise, and she seemed to consider whether or not she should say more, her jaw shifting. "He disappears."<p>

"Oh," Kyle said, sounding so much like his eight-year-old self that Stan had to push down a happy laugh.

"Disappears?" Stan said, not familiar with that facet of Kenny pathology. Bebe shook her head.

"Put your lights on," she said as they started up the mountain. "Headlights, I mean."

The sun had just begun to set as they reached the steep gravel driveway that led up to what was once the eccentric geneticist's private laboratory. Before that, the building had been a state-run mental hospital. Mephesto had bought the property cheap when state funding dried up and the mental patients were bussed to other hospitals - or released into the surrounding woods, if the urban legends Stan grew up with were to be believed. The drive up toward the crumbling building was bumpy, and Stan hoped they would be able to corral these kids before the sun finished setting. He'd never been up to the old lab after dark, but he'd made plenty of trips during the afternoon as a cop, and also when he was a teenager himself, with Kyle and his other friends.

"Wow," Kyle said as they pulled up. The building was seven stories tall and not designed to be aesthetically pleasing; it resembled a fortress. The exterior was still solid and intact, though badly scarred by time and dotted with broken windows, jagged glass. "This place is a mess," Kyle said. "Why don't they tear it down?"

"Don't know," Stan said. "It might still belong to Mephesto's son. He went to some Ivy League college, hasn't been back since."

Stan climbed out of the car, wishing again that Kyle had a coat. It was colder up in the mountains, and the chill of evening was descending fast, too. Even the tree line looked sinister as the glow of sundown lit it from behind, making the silhouetted pines resemble a monster's uneven teeth. Stan went back to the car for his spare flashlight and handed it to Kyle. Bebe was patrolling the perimeter, shouting that they were police and asking if anyone was there. Stan couldn't smell fresh spray paint layered onto the already overlapping tags on the building's exterior, didn't see flashlight beams in the upstairs windows or catch a whiff of nearby pot. There weren't even any fresh cigarette butts on the ground, but he did see muddy tire tracks that looked recent.

"Brings back memories," Kyle said. He walked alongside Stan, shining his flashlight beam here and there before returning it to the same spots that Stan focused on.

"Yeah," Stan said, thinking of those late fall afternoons, riding bikes all the way out here with Kyle, laughing nervously as they poked around outside the creepy old building. They'd never been rebellious enough, or brave enough, to cut the chains on the front doors or tear the boards from a first floor window and slip inside. "You want my coat?" Stan asked.

"Your- what?" Kyle laughed and looked at Stan like he was crazy. "No, thank you. Stan. I'm not even cold."

Stan didn't buy this, because Kyle was letting his shoulder bump against Stan's while they walked, which was something he always used to do when he was hoping Stan would offer his jacket or toss an arm around him for warmth. Kyle had been so skinny back then, always shivering.

"You guys see anything?" Bebe asked, radioing this to Stan from the other side of the building.

"Nope," Stan said. "You?"

"Not yet. Let's meet at back, circle the perimeter again on the way to the car and get the hell out of here. This place stinks."

"What is that?" Kyle asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Rotting leaves," Stan said. "And, just. Decay, disuse."

"It's chemical," Kyle said. "Like formaldehyde."

"Well, I'm sure old man Mephesto left plenty of that inside when he abandoned the place."

Stan slowed his steps on the walk toward the back of the building. The woods behind the lab were thick and rapidly darkening, silent except for a soft wind that moved through the pine branches overhead. The building and even the surrounding woods emanated a kind of sad, hollow menace, but Stan had strangely good memories of this place, tied up with the season of trick-or-treating and pumpkin carving. He had sort of loved coming here as a kid, though the place did scare him. It was something about the anticipation of approaching an unknowable danger, then dashing back home before the sun went down, Kyle beside him the whole time.

"Tomorrow is your birthday," Kyle said. He had turned his flashlight off and was still walking close, letting his shoulder bump against Stan's.

"Yeah," Stan said. "A boring one. Thirty-one. I don't really have anything planned."

"October nineteenth," Kyle said. "Every year, you know. That day always makes me sad."

"Why?" Stan asked, though he knew. May twenty-sixth, same thing.

"Because we don't talk anymore," Kyle said. "But I still feel like I know you, even though I also know that I – don't. You're like this phantom limb."

"I know," Stan said, not wanting to pretend anymore that he didn't understand. Not now, here, in the huge shadow that this place threw over them. "I mean. I feel the same."

Kyle seemed to be trying to say something, his lips parted and his eyebrows drawn together. He stopped walking when they reached the corner and turned toward the back wall of the building. Stan could see Bebe's flashlight bobbing up ahead, moving toward them.

"There are things I never told you," Kyle said, speaking softly. He was watching the beam of Bebe's flashlight, looking like he'd just passed through a cold spot that might have been a ghost.

"I know," Stan said, again, wanting to slide his jacket off and wrap Kyle into it. "There's, yeah, so much. I should have, back then, things I should have said—"

"I think we're talking about different things," Kyle said.

"What – yeah?"

"You said you don't have plans for your birthday," Kyle said, finally looking at Stan. "Would you, um. Like to hang out? With me?"

"Yeah," Stan said, withholding a smart ass remark about whether or not Mac would be invited along. "Oh, shit, but I do have to work until six, and I was planning on having dinner with my kids. They're spending the night, um. But you could come over after they go to bed. Or, you know. You could meet them."

"God," Kyle said, and clearly that was the last thing he wanted, which hurt a little. "No, I. I need to talk to you, so. It would be strange, with your kids there."

"Okay, well. Day after my birthday?"

"What are you guys doing?" Bebe shouted. "You want to just go?" she asked when she reached them. She was slightly breathless, hurrying her steps. "I mean, I do," she said. "Whoever was up here is gone, and it's getting dark."

"Yes, let's go," Kyle said, taking her arm. "Walk with us. It's still so eerie up here. I didn't think it would bother me."

They headed back to the car, finding no signs of the trespassing teens on the way. Stan figured those kids were probably on their way home when the old woman heard them making a ruckus. He had no trouble believing they'd been here; it was just a few weeks from Halloween, and calls about break-ins at the old lab always increased as the holiday approached and kids went looking for a 'real' haunted house.

"What are you doing for your dinner break?" Bebe asked Kyle as they drove away from the lab, Stan's cruiser bouncing over the gravel road again. The sun was almost gone, and Stan was glad that they would reach the main mountain road before it disappeared entirely.

"Hmm," Kyle said. "I don't know, honestly. The dining selections here are even more limited than I remembered."

"City Wok's still good," Stan said. Kyle laughed, to Stan's annoyance. That hadn't been a joke.

They drove Kyle back to the station, where he'd left his car. He thanked them for the 'nostalgic field trip' and waved to Stan as if he'd forgotten about their half-formed plans, but as Stan headed back into the station he felt his cell phone buzz. It was a text from Kyle:

_Day after your birthday, yes. Sounds good, dude._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** WARNING - in this chapter there is some discussion of past childhood abuse. What's coming will probably be obvious by the time that scene gets going, so please feel free so skim if you need to; the basic context will be communicated either way. Sorry this chapter came a little later than I intended, and thanks to all who are reading. After the new year I should be able to settle into my chapter-a-week plan for real.

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><p>Stan woke up feeling optimistic on his thirty-first birthday, possibly only because it was already a huge improvement over his thirtieth. Last year, he had just finalized his divorce, and had allowed Kenny to convince him to go to Denver for a bar crawl. Stan couldn't remember past the third bar and woke up feeling shipwrecked in some fancy hotel room that Kenny told him he had agreed to pay for the night before. Kenny ended up chipping in for half. He was plenty hungover himself, but he remembered more of their drunken conversation than Stan did.<p>

"Last night I told you that I'm pretty sure Kevin is gay," Kenny said they were at Denny's, halfway back to South Park. Stan was miserably hugging a cup of coffee while Kenny shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth. "And last night," Kenny said, sheepish and peering at Stan apologetically from over his plate of eggs. "You said 'me too.'"

Stan was too miserably ill to muster the energy to deny it. He grunted and nodded.

"Bisexual," he mumbled, and he burned his mouth when he drank from his coffee, that word still tasting strange on his tongue.

The morning of his thirty-first birthday was already far better than that one. He wasn't suffering with a hangover, saying 'bisexual' didn't make him turn red anymore, and he had actual plans to hang out with Kyle soon, for the first time since the nauseating weeks prior to Stan's wedding. Stan was humming in the shower before his shift, and by the time he dressed in his uniform he was feeling a bit guilty about his good mood. There was still a killer at large, and the whole town was on edge, waiting to see what would happen next. Stan remembered Kyle's smug instruction to be extra vigilant, and he grinned to himself as he headed to his patrol car, no longer annoyed by the fact that Kyle had stated the obvious. He had always done so when they were kids, and it wasn't because he thought Stan was stupid. He just liked to make sure they were on the same page.

At the station, Bebe had brought two boxes of fancy donuts to mark the occasion of Stan's birthday. Stan selected a fluffy, powdered sugar-dusted one filled with cream and sliced strawberries. He headed to his desk to get started on the morning's paperwork, glad that Bebe hadn't tied a balloon to the back of his chair this year.

"Feel older?" Bebe asked when she sat on the corner of Stan's desk, holding a half-eaten chocolate donut. Stan was going to say no, like he always had in response to this question, but that response wasn't accurate this year.

"I actually do," he said. "It's been a good year, mostly. Not easy, but good."

"Is Kyle going to join us tonight?"

"Nah, he's not. He, um. I think it would be weird for him to meet the kids, I guess?"

Bebe rolled her eyes.

"But we're hanging out tomorrow," Stan said, defensively. "After my shift, so. It'll be good to catch up for real. Outside of the investigation."

"Outside of the investigation is right," Bebe said, and she scoffed. "Now that the FBI got brought in, I'm having a hard time getting any information about how they're progressing. That Mac guy told the Chief they'd brief us weekly. Weekly? Are they fucking kidding?"

"Kyle will tell me what's going on," Stan said, and Bebe seemed to consider disputing this, her eyebrows twitching and her mouth dropping open. She took another bite of her donut instead, maybe because it was Stan's birthday.

Their patrol felt like an average workday before the murders: a few traffic stops, some kids trying to mess with a fire hydrant, and a minor scuffle at Skeeter's to finish out the day. In the past, Stan had been comforted by the manageable scale of these small town incidents while he was on duty, but they felt like busy work in light of the unsolved murders, and he was a little on edge by the end of his shift. He could tell that Bebe was feeling it, too. She seemed to be having a hard time sitting still, and she kept checking and rechecking the radio whenever it went silent.

"It'll be fun tonight," she said when Stan dropped her off at the station."Me and Kenny will bring a box of wine."

"You're coming together?" Stan said.

"I'm giving him a ride. He's getting ready for this big Mormon funeral." Bebe leaned into the open passenger side door and looked back into the car, at Stan. "He's weird about this," she said. "The deaths. He hasn't been that upset about it, not the way most people are. I guess because he sees dead bodies all the time?"

"Probably. What's the other explanation, he's our suspect?"

"Oh, shut up," Bebe said. "See you later."

Driving to pick up the kids, Stan thought about what Wayne had said the day before. _It's got to be someone we know_. It wasn't necessarily true, and didn't feel as if it possibly could be, but Stan couldn't rule it out. The idea that it could be Kenny was purely a joke, but there were other South Park citizens he'd known since boyhood who he didn't really 'know' at all, beyond a polite familiarity. He thought of Cartman, who had arrived at Skeeter's with his dealership cronies as Stan and Bebe were packing off the drunk and disorderly scuffle-instigator. Cartman seemed more likely to kill without remorse in a crime of passion than in some kind of carefully planned scheme involving the removal of tongues, but Stan had to admit that Kyle was right: they couldn't overlook the people in the community who had a record of criminal pathology.

He tried to come up with anybody else who still lived in town and had a serious criminal record, and he could only think of Linda Stotch trying to drown Butters in the family car. Since Butters escaped, there wasn't enough evidence to prove that he had actually been in the car when she drove it into the lake. Butters wasn't willing to testify that he had been after Linda recanted her original, televised statement and characterized it as a hysterical delusion, but everybody knew. It was one of those sick, open South Park secrets that nobody talked about even back then, and certainly not now. Though he had protected her as a child, Stan couldn't blame Butters for not wanting to drop everything and return to the town where he grew up miserable, abused, and in denial about his mother's attempted murder of him, only to be asked to care for her as she deteriorated again.

At Lola's house, Evan ran out to meet Stan on the front walk and threw her arms around him, the birthday card she'd made for him flapping in her hand. Stan lifted her up into a hug and held on a little longer than he normally did, unable to fathom how any amount of grief could make a parent hurt their child. Wayne came out next, carrying both of their overnight bags, and Stan grinned at the sight of Wayne holding Evan's little backpack, which was festooned with _Frozen_ characters.

"Mom says to tell you happy birthday," Wayne said. "From her, I mean."

"Right," Stan said, setting Evan down. "Well, thanks to Mom."

"She's inside on the phone," Wayne said. "Also. Happy birthday from me, too."

"He didn't make a card," Evan said, smoothing hers out against her chest.

"That's okay," Stan said. He stepped forward to hug Wayne, hoping that he wouldn't rear away. Wayne relented and even hugged Stan back, patting his shoulder. "Let me see this card," Stan said, one arm still hugged around Wayne. Evan beamed and presented it to him. She'd painted the Broncos logo on front, and inside there was a drawing of a cop car and a birthday cake, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY sandwiched between them. "This is awesome!" Stan said, truly kind of thrilled. "Wow, look, you did my car just right."

"I used a picture of it," Evan said. "But I didn't trace!"

They picked up a pizza on the way to Stan's house, and Bebe arrived with Kenny and the promised box of wine as Stan was setting out paper plates. Kevin McCormick showed up an hour later with a cake. Karen was with him, probably for purposes of security rather than any desire to spend the evening celebrating her brothers' friend's birthday. Stan was glad to see her, though also embarrassed about scaring her earlier in the week. There were no candles for the cake, but Bebe led everyone in the birthday song before she sliced it up. It felt like a proper party, much more celebratory than last year's post-divorce bar crawl, but Stan kept catching himself feeling like something was missing. He tried to convince himself that it was the absence of Lola, not Kyle, that felt unfamiliar, then had another glass of box wine and decided that was stupid. He'd spent too much time already trying to talk himself out of wanting Kyle around all the time. It was a relief, finally, to realize that it was still true.

Karen and Kevin went home after the kids went to bed, Kevin without so much as a wink to indicate that Stan might cash in on some birthday sex later in the week. Sometimes it seemed like Kevin regularly forgot what went on between them in his foggy little apartment. Though it was a little disorienting, Stan preferred this selective amnesia to Kevin Stoley-Donovan's pointed stares in public.

"So I've got the Mormon funeral tomorrow," Kenny said when it was just him, Stan and Bebe sitting in the glow of the cheap chandelier over the kitchen table, the rest of the house dark and quiet.

"Let's not talk about funerals," Bebe said. "It's Stan's birthday."

"What do you want from me?" Kenny said. "Death is my life."

"I'm jumpy every time we get radioed, past few days," Stan said. He would only admit this to the two of them, and he craned his neck to check the back hallway and make sure that Wayne wasn't passing through on his way to the bathroom. "Afraid we're going to have another dead person with no tongue any day now," Stan said.

"I know," Bebe said. "I feel like everybody's sort of holding their breath."

"No pun intended," Kenny said. "I assume."

"Will you stop?" Bebe said, slamming her wine glass down. "People are dying. I'd think you, of all people, would know to show some respect."

"We're not among the grieving here, Bebe," Kenny said. "I'm just talking with my friends. Lighten up."

"It's not light for me and Stan!" Bebe said, her voice rising until Stan worried Evan would wake up to flashbacks of fights she overheard between him and Lola. "Me and Stan found Ruby, who was your sister's best friend, by the way."

"I know that," Kenny said. "I know more about grief and dying than I could ever explain, okay?"

"You're always saying shit like that," Bebe said. She had lowered her voice, but had simultaneously infused it with real anger. "No one forced you to become a mortician. If you hate it so much, why don't you-"

"Who says I hate it? I actually love it."

"Well, that's a little fucked up, honestly!"

"Guys," Stan said. "Stop. It's my birthday."

"Sorry," Bebe said, pushing her wine glass away. "I had one too many. This cheap stuff gives me the worst buzz." She glanced over at Kenny, and raised her shoulder when he reached for her.

"Let me drive you home," he said, so softly that Stan got up from the table, gathering frosting-smeared plates.

"I'm just gonna crash on Stan's couch," she said. "My shift doesn't start until noon tomorrow. Stan, do you mind?"

"Of course not," he said. His recent policy on company was the more the merrier. "Kenny, you could join her on the couch if you want," Stan said.

"Excuse me," Bebe said. "It might be your couch, but you don't get to give him permission to sleep there with me."

"I didn't mean," Stan said, flustered at the sink. He'd had one too many himself, and was feeling bleary, over-tired. "I didn't mean sex," he said, almost whispering this. "The kids are here. Just, for sleeping."

"Sharing a couch with him is more intimacy than I can deal with right now," Bebe said.

"Now you're talking about me like I'm not here?" Kenny said.

"I was talking to Stan. That doesn't mean I'm pretending you're not here. Though honestly I'm starting to wish you would leave."

"Hey, c'mon," Stan said, but Kenny was already getting up, pushing his chair in hard once he had.

"No, I'll go," Kenny said. "I've got a ton of work to do before tomorrow. I'll be up all night preparing someone's corpse so his loved ones can have one last look at him. Like callous assholes who fetishize death do."

"Whoever said the word 'fetishize?'" Bebe asked, giving him a horrified look.

"Guys, shhh," Stan said. "The kids."

He walked Kenny out to his car, feeling guilty, as if his birthday had caused this fight. It wasn't unusual for Bebe and Kenny to fight publicly, but it had been a while. They were more fiery back in high school, always breaking up and reconnecting in spectacular fits of passion that occasionally threw shrapnel toward their friends.

"She's just blowing off steam," Stan said when they made it to the end of the driveway, where Kenny's car was parked. "We're both stressed."

"She's always riding my ass like I'm this alien who doesn't fully understand how to relate to the human species," Kenny said, turning back to stare at Stan's house. "She doesn't know the first thing about my life." He sounded sad about that part, not angry. Stan was confused.

"Uh, she kinda does, dude," he said. "I mean. You've pretty much known each other all your lives-"

"She said you went up to the old Mephesto lab with Kyle yesterday," Kenny said. "Said you and Kyle wandered off together in the dark. How was that?"

Stan snorted. "How was what? We were looking for some teenagers. Kyle rode along on a call we got about kids making noise up there. You know, it's almost Halloween. Happens every year."

"Stan."

"What?"

"How was Kyle? Bebe said he was nice. She said he had a fancy special agent fountain pen and that he wears suspenders." Kenny grinned at this mental image, and Stan was glad his mood had improved, though offended on behalf of Kyle's suspenders.

"They weren't, like, polka-dotted or anything," Stan said, and Kenny laughed.

"But what was it like, man?" Kenny asked. "Did you guys talk, up there by the creepy lab, in the dark?"

"Yeah, Kenny, and then we boned against the side of the building for old times' sake."

"Were you boning back then?" Kenny asked, narrowing his eyes. "We could never tell."

"Quit being stupid, you know I was with Lola. Go home, okay? Or go to work, I guess."

"Yeah, I've got a lot to do tonight," Kenny said. "I want to tell them all that they're right, during the reception, but maybe they already know that."

"Huh?"

"The Mormons who think David is in heaven. Never mind. Tell Bebe I'm sorry. It's not her fault."

Stan watched Kenny drive away, feeling kind of dazed. He looked up and down the quiet street when Kenny was gone. A few neighbors had Halloween decorations out; Stan wondered if he should get pumpkins for the kids to carve, or if they would do that at Lola's house. He felt a surge of anger, surveying the sleeping houses and hearing nothing in the distance but the wind through the pines. There was a killer out there somewhere, hiding, thinking he had outsmarted those who pursued him. Stan walked back into the house, still angry, and still not sure that he would be able to do anything to stop what was happening to the town.

He put a blanket and pillow on the couch for Bebe. She had helped herself to one of his sweatshirts and was using Evan's bubblegum-flavored dental floss in the hall bathroom. Stan brought her a glass of water, not wanting to hear about her box wine hangover tomorrow during their shift, and went to check on the kids. They were sleeping on twin beds in the guest bedroom, and Stan finally didn't feel guilty for forcing them to temporarily share a room. It seemed safer, in present circumstances. He'd wanted to rent a three-bedroom house, but even this one, closer than he'd like to the bad part of town, was nearly out of his price range. The kids were both sleeping soundly, and Stan resisted the temptation to sneak in and kiss their foreheads. He went to the hall bathroom and leaned in the doorway.

"I don't want to talk about it," Bebe said, still flossing.

"Good," Stan said. "'Cause I'm going to bed." He groaned when he felt his phone vibrate as if to object. "Fuck," he said when he saw who was calling. "Kevin," he said, to Bebe. "Stoley-Donovan."

"You'd better answer," Bebe said. "He looked like he was ready to flay you at Bennigan's that night."

"He can't flay me," Stan said. "Not publicly, anyway."

"I don't know, Stan, he might be looking to embarrass you, and now Kyle's back in town."

"What's Kyle got to do with it?" Stan asked, and he answered the phone to keep from hearing her response to that question. "Hello?" he said, moving toward his bedroom.

"Hey," Kevin said. He didn't sound angry; his voice was soft and low. Clyde was probably asleep somewhere nearby. "How are you, birthday boy?"

"I'm fine. Where's Clyde?"

"Upstairs, asleep. I miss you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Where are you right now?"

"At home," Stan said.

"In your bedroom?" Kevin asked, breathy.

"Uh, yeah." He shut the door behind him, already sorry that he'd answered.

"Alone?" Kevin said.

"Yes. What's up? It's late, I'm kinda-"

"What are you wearing?" Kevin asked. Stan snorted.

"Are you serious?" he asked.

"Yes," Kevin said, some of the usual bite returning to his voice. "I'm horny, I need you. He passed out after dinner. That fucking banana has totally killed his sex drive, I told you."

This observation always caused Stan to picture Clyde with a frowning banana in place of his cock, which was not a welcome thought. He sat on the bed, not wanting to deal with this.

"I'm wearing jeans and a sweater," Stan said.

"Are you sure you're not wearing your uniform?" Kevin asked. Stan withheld a groan. Kevin got off on being fucked while Stan was in uniform, and Stan typically got off on it, too. He'd been wearing it when Kevin first flirted with him, at that town council meeting.

"Fine, Kevin," Stan said, putting his hand over his dick. "I'm wearing my uniform. Even my gun belt."

"Officer," Kevin says. "I'm all alone in my big house, and I heard a scary noise."

"Don't do that baby voice thing, please."

"It wasn't a baby voice! Jesus, just. I'm a scared, lonely house husband wearing only a silk robe." Kevin was speaking a bit flatly now, as if he knew Stan wasn't going to be able to get into this. Stan held the phone away from his mouth when he yawned.

"I've checked the perimeter, mister," Stan said. They had done this before, though never over the phone. "Seeing my car must have scared the prowler away." He thought of Linda Stotch and let go of his dick, giving up on getting aroused.

"Oh," Kevin said, whining a little. "You saved me. How can I thank you? It's so late, and you came all this way just to check on me."

"Uh," Stan said, and then he just sat there, wishing he was brushing his teeth. Kevin huffed.

"Officer," he said. "What can I _possibly_ do to thank you?"

"Blow me," Stan said, but it came out sounding mean, not sexy.

"Is your cock out?" Kevin asked. He had also started to sound vaguely angry. Stan sighed hard into the phone.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess."

"What's your problem?" Kevin snapped. "This was supposed to be your special birthday treat, which I was going to give you even though you excluded us from your creepy Bennigan's reunion-"

"It wasn't a reunion. I'm not comfortable doing this while I know Clyde is asleep upstairs, okay?"

"Yeah? Really? It's because Clyde is in town? Not because Kyle is?"

"What the fuck?" Stan said, wanting to pitch the phone across the room. "Why does everyone think- What's Kyle got to do with it?"

"Please. Are you kidding? Everyone knows you two gave each other bro jobs back in school."

"The fuck's a bro job?"

"Like you don't know!" Kevin said, and he hung up. Stan dropped the phone onto the bed.

Despite the jarring phone call, it didn't take him long to fall asleep, but his dreams were unsettling and dark, often lit by a single flashlight beam that guided him uncertainly through dense woods. Kyle was in almost all of his dreams but was always out of sight, calling for Stan in the darkness, sounding like he was in danger. Stan woke from these dreams feeling almost desperate enough to text Kyle and make sure he was alright, and at four in the morning he groped for his phone with a half-asleep plan to do so. He had a message from Kyle from an hour earlier:

_Happy birthday, dude. Sorry this is late. Looking forward to hanging out tomorrow. Come to my motel room after your shift? It's room 109._

Stan hugged the phone to his chest and went back to sleep. He would respond in the morning, when the urge to send something over the top like _I can't wait, I've missed you so much, I've been dreaming about you all night, are you still okay?_ had passed.

His shift went by slowly the following day, though the mundane routines that he'd known before the murders were a relief. Bebe was tired and in a bad mood, mostly keeping quiet. Stan was grateful for this, not wanting to discuss the forthcoming evening with Kyle. He didn't want to jinx it.

"Are the kids at Lola's tonight?" Bebe asked when they were back at the station after eating dinner in the squad car - City Wok, again. Stan nodded.

"She has them until next weekend, according to the schedule. Last night was just, you know, for my birthday."

"Sure," Bebe said. She smiled in a way that made her seem sad, like it was an effort to do so. "Sorry if I ruined it," she said.

"Hey, no way. I'm not. Uh, I've known you and Kenny forever. It doesn't bother me."

Bebe shrugged. She logged off shift and left the station without another word to Stan, and he wondered if he should be worried. Cheerfully, he realized he could tell Kyle all about this and get his opinion on what to do, like old times.

Stan was jittery with anticipation as he headed to his car. He'd decided to go directly to Kyle's room instead of changing out of his uniform at home first, and he'd made no effort to convince himself he was doing this for any reason other than Kyle's comment about it looking good on him. He'd asked in a text if he should bring Kyle some dinner, and Kyle texted back that he'd already eaten but did have 'provisions' in the room. Stan was partially aroused just by that the Kyle-typical haughtiness of that word, _provisions_, and he knew he was kind of fucked but couldn't seem to box his excitement in as neatly as he should; it was spilling over everywhere, flooding him with clumsy hope.

He got to the Travelodge a little after ten o'clock and checked his hair in the car's rear view mirror. It was okay, and the bags under his eyes weren't too obvious. As he made his way toward Room 109, a flashback jolted through him unexpectedly: something about approaching Kyle's door, preparing to knock, made him remember going up to Ruby's apartment with Bebe, not knowing what they would find inside. He cursed under his breath and tried to force the thought away before knocking, but his heart was pounding even as he heard the sound of Kyle's footsteps in the room.

"Hey," Stan said, letting out a shaky breath when Kyle opened the door. Kyle had taken off his tie and pushed his suspenders down to hang around his hips. Stan liked them even better this way.

"What's wrong?" Kyle asked, peeking around Stan's shoulders to look at the motel's dingy outdoor hallway, which faced the woods.

"What- nothing, no. Why?"

"You sound like you ran here," Kyle said, stepping back to let him inside.

"Sorry, just." Stan laughed and walked inside, already feeling like he'd spoiled this. "I guess I'm a little, uh." He didn't want to say jumpy, shaken, half-suffering from PTSD.

"I know," Kyle said. He shut the door and locked it. "It's weird, right? Seeing each other again."

"Oh- right."

Stan looked around the room, his heart lifting when he saw that Kyle had tried to fancy it up a bit. There were two lit candles in jars on the room's sad little table, along with an open bottle of red wine and plate with two kinds of cheese and some crackers. Kyle's iPod was plugged into a dock and playing some ambient guitar music at a very low volume.

"I don't know if that cheese is any good," Kyle said. He was fumbling through a pack of mixed plastic silverware. When he came up with a knife he brought it over to the little cheese plate and stuck it into the little mound of soft, white cheese. "I got it from Sooper Foods," Kyle said. "You guys still don't even have, like, a Whole Foods or anything."

"That's so weird," Stan said, shrugging off his jacket.

"Well, I don't know that a Whole Foods would even do very well here-"

"No, I meant hearing you say it like that. 'You guys,' like. We're here, and you're there. Sorry, I- jesus, I don't know why I'm rambling like this." Stan put his hands over his face, embarrassed by all of this; even the cheese was excruciating. He left his hands over his face even as he heard Kyle walking toward him, and was surprised when Kyle drew them away gently, holding Stan's wrists. He was peering up at Stan with that old, accepting look, his _dude, it's me_ expression that always dissolved Stan's anxieties.

"I know," Kyle said, still holding Stan's wrists. "Stan, seriously. Don't apologize- I'm the one who ran away from that Bennigan's dinner in tears like a child, remember? I understand."

"You were in tears?" Stan said, wanting to hold Kyle's face, stroke his cheeks. Kyle shrugged.

"Well," he said, and he released Stan's wrists. "Almost. Here, I can at least vouch for the wine. I was really glad to find this- Sooper's has a surprisingly good wine selection!" Kyle went to the table, where he had two actual wine glasses sitting beside the bottle. Stan wondered where he'd gotten them; did he go to Wall-Mart and buy some just for the occasion? Kyle poured two very shallow glasses and brought one to Stan. "Happy birthday," he said, toasting him when he'd taken it.

"Thanks," Stan said. It was a struggle not to gulp the wine, and a relief to have something to calm his nerves. Kyle sniffed his before drinking it, so Stan did the same. It just smelled like red wine to him, but he nodded in approving agreement when Kyle did.

"I guess it's weird to do this here," Kyle said. "I mean, I'm serving you wine and cheese in a Travelodge motel, what the fuck. But it was too much, that night at Bennigan's. Even Mephesto's lab was too much. I like that it's kind of- neutral, here? And we can talk without interruptions."

"Yeah," Stan said. He sat on the bed, then realized it would be rude to ignore the cheese, though he wasn't really hungry. He got up, cut a few slices and ate them over the table, scattering crumbs with every bite. He poured more wine into his glass before returning to the bed, where Kyle was sitting, cross-legged. Stan noticed then that he was shoeless. Kyle's socks were gray-blue, expensive-looking.

"Do you like it?" Kyle asked when Stan sat beside him.

"What? Oh, the wine, yeah."

"It's one of my favorites," Kyle said. He looked away, swallowing heavily. "Sorry, fuck. I don't know where to start."

"I know. Do you, um. Want to hear about my birthday?"

"Yes, perfect." Kyle grinned and drank from his glass. "I need to drink about half that bottle before we talk about the past," he said. "Maybe you can relate."

"Fuck, yes," Stan said, and Kyle smiled again. "My birthday was pretty good," Stan said. "Just had pizza and cake with the kids and a few friends." He felt bad for saying it like that, talking about his friends like they were one thing and Kyle was another, though of course that was true now, and Kyle had turned down Stan's invitation on account of not wanting to meet his kids. "Bebe and Kenny fought," Stan said.

"Oh, god," Kyle said. "Those two. What set them off this time?"

"Death."

"Huh."

"Yeah, it was weird. And then Kenny was talking about heaven on the driveway- oh, fuck."

"What?" Kyle said, leaning toward him.

"I, nothing. Gary's brother's funereal was today, shit. I said I would go, and I didn't."

"You said- to Kenny?"

"No, to Gary. I talked to him the other day, he called to say he was back in town for the-" Stan almost said 'murder.' "Funeral."

"I see." Kyle drank some wine. "So you guys _are_ still friends," he said, as if Stan had lied about this.

"Sort of. He said he was ready to help in any way he can. I don't know what to tell him- I barely know what to do about all of it myself, other than telling you my dumb theories."

"They're not dumb," Kyle said, frowning. "It's helpful, or anyway, it might be. It's not like Mac and I have made any amazing breakthroughs since we got here. But I really don't want to talk about the murders, or David Harrison's funeral, if you don't mind."

"Sure," Stan said, annoyed. It wasn't like he'd been dying to talk about the Harrisons with Kyle, and he certainly didn't mind avoiding shoptalk. "Anyway, uh. Bebe seemed kind of rattled by the whole thing. I don't know if I should be worried about her, and them, or not."

"What difference is worrying going to make? Those two are grown now, and still doing this dance around each other bullshit. It's so high school."

"Yeah," Stan said, hurt by that, as if it was ridiculous to still be hung up on unfinished high school business. Kyle sighed as if he sensed this and leaned down onto the bed, propping himself on his elbow and twirling the remaining wine in his glass with his free hand. Stan wondered if he should take off his shoes, or at least his gun belt. Kyle's was hanging on the back of one of the little chairs at the table, near the cheese.

"Tell me about your kids," Kyle said when Stan glanced over at him after a moment of semi-brutal silence.

"Wayne is thirteen now," Stan said. "Evan is eight-"

"No, Stan," Kyle said. "I mean, really tell me about them. What are they like? How did they take you and Lola splitting up?"

"Alright, I guess," Stan said, muttering. He didn't think it was fair, Kyle not even letting him finish one glass of wine before they arrived at this subject. "Wayne's been more closed off, since. Especially with me. Evan kind of regressed a little. She clings."

"What's with that name?" Kyle asked. "Was that Lola's idea?"

"Yeah. She thought it was a cute name for a girl. I think so, too, actually."

"Okay, don't get all testy. Well, I'm sure they're very cute."

"I've got pictures on my phone."

"Maybe later," Kyle said. He drank from his wine, and smirked when he saw the look Stan was giving him. "What?" Kyle said. "I don't even know anyone else with kids, just you."

Stan withheld a comment about how well Kyle 'knew' him now and drank some wine instead. Again, Kyle sighed in passive protest as if he'd heard what Stan was thinking.

"I mean, I practically raised Ike," Kyle said. "I guess I just want a little break from all of that, until I decide, whatever. If I'll ever get married or not. Probably not."

"No? Yeah, I'm not getting married again," Stan said, though it didn't feel true. "Not as long as I stay in South Park, anyway. You never, though- nobody, you never got close?"

"To marriage?" Kyle scoffed. "No, Stan, I haven't. I had a long relationship in my mid-twenties, but he was a barista and he couldn't get past my job. He had inadequacy issues."

"Hmm," Stan said, trying to picture Kyle with some pierced, angry barista. "So you've never dated any fellow FBI agents?"

"No," Kyle said, wrinkling his nose. "We're infamously difficult to date. Especially while we're still trying to establish our careers, like I am."

"Police officers are the same way," Stan said. "There's some statistic about divorce, Bebe's always bringing it up. Or she was, before I became part of that statistic."

"Was it hard?" Kyle asked. "Leaving her?"

"No. Leaving the kids was hard. Me and Lola- it was a relief for us both to just call it what it was, finally."

"God," Kyle said. He stood from the bed and walked over to pour himself more wine. "I'll bet," he muttered when Stan said nothing.

"If you want to say 'I told you so,'" Stan said, more sharply than he'd meant to, "Go ahead. Or I guess you already have."

"I just never understood," Kyle said, his back to Stan. "Or maybe I thought I did, and that was worse."

Stan wasn't sure what he meant by that. He wanted Kyle to turn around, to give him an apologetic look. He also wanted to throw down his wine glass, walk to that table, grab Kyle by his suspenders and yank him close, kiss his pale neck. It was all coming back to him too fast, and unconfused now that he'd been with men who'd cost him less.

"Well," Stan said, resenting the fact that he wanted to toss Kyle a bone. "I screwed up my life. You called it."

"It wasn't just you," Kyle said, turning. He picked up the wine bottle and brought it over to refill Stan's glass, his hand shaking a little as he did. "It's this whole town. They were so excited to have somebody to send here, at the Bureau, when we got the assignment to investigate these murders. It was a boon for them to be able to send an agent who grew up here, and who still knows the majority of the population, more or less. And I just. I had no idea how hard it would be."

"Is it me?" Stan asked. Kyle's eyes jerked up to his, and he looked angry for a moment, but his expression softened and he shook his head.

"No," Kyle said. "You're. I think you're the only reason I can stand being back here, actually."

Stan wasn't sure how long he'd stared up at Kyle in speechless gratitude before someone knocked hard on the door; it felt both like a long time and way too short to matter. Kyle put his wine on the table and hurried to the door without casting a look back at Stan, who wanted to tell him not to open it for anybody.

It was Mac, and when Kyle let him in Stan saw the wine and cheese and guitar music as incriminating, ghost-of-high-school garbage. He was more embarrassed for Kyle than for himself, but Kyle seemed not to care that Mac was witnessing this.

"Just wanted to make sure you saw that email from Yeager," Mac said. He nodded at Stan as he crossed the room to help himself to a big glob of the white cheese atop a cracker, as if Kyle always had cheese on hand and he'd come looking for it.

"I saw it," Kyle said. He was rubbing at his face, suddenly looking as if he was ready for bed. "He's treating me like I'm a psychic. Like I was supposed to come here, take one look at the usual suspects and point out the killer before sundown."

Stan thought of Cartman, and Kyle glanced over at him as if he had invoked that name out loud. Stan drank from his wine and waited for Kyle to get rid of this guy.

"Fuck Yeager," Mac said. "He's too hard on you."

"He hates me," Kyle said.

"Nah, he just expects the most out of you. Kyle graduated at the top of his class," Mac said, turning to Stan.

"I know," Stan said, smug, and then he realized Mac wasn't talking about high school.

"Dude," Kyle said, and Stan felt like he'd shelved in a warehouse when he saw that Kyle was talking to Mac, giving him a stern but friendly stare as he continued to consume cheese and crackers. "We're kind of in the middle of something here."

"Oh," Mac said. He turned to look at Stan, his gaze crawling down to Stan's gun belt. "I thought maybe you were on duty," he said when he met Stan's eyes again. "You're just checking on Kyle?"

"It's his birthday," Kyle said, and he gave Mac a look that Stan couldn't interpret, some kind of signal that seemed to mean 'get out of here,' because Mac held up his hands, still chewing.

"Alright," he said. "I'm going. Where'd you get this cheese?"

"Sooper Foods," Kyle said, and he grinned. "You like it?"

"Uh-huh." Mac patted Kyle on his chest as he made his way past him, toward the door. Something about the fact that he didn't even meet Kyle's eyes as he did so made the gesture more intimate than Stan could bear, and he burned inside his uniform, gulping wine now. "G'night," Mac said, not looking back at Stan. "Don't let Yeager's bullshit get to you."

"I won't," Kyle said. "Night." He locked the door when Mac was gone, crossed the room and refilled his wine.

"Me too," Stan said, holding his glass out.

"We're going through this kind of fast," Kyle said, though the bottle hadn't even been drained to the halfway point yet. He poured Stan a stingy refill. "Relax," Kyle said. "Take your shoes off. Unless you need to go soon?"

"I'm free all night," Stan said, not sure if he'd meant for that to sound sexy; it hadn't, anyway. He sighed and unclipped his gun belt, standing to put it over the chair where Kyle's hung.

"Aren't you cold, in short sleeves?" Kyle asked while Stan untied his boots. "You want a sweater?"

"I'm fine," Stan said, imagining Kyle's fitted sweaters, maybe made of cashmere. Stan would look ridiculous in them, and he wasn't cold. He was still fuming about Mac's visit, though nothing had transpired that he could actually complain to Kyle about. "That guy," he said, gesturing to the door with his thumb. "He's your best friend now, I guess."

"He's my partner. You know what it's like, with Bebe. I saw how close you guys are now."

"Sure, yeah. So what's he like? Seems like kind of an asshole."

"I think he's just threatened by you," Kyle said. "He's heard a lot about you."

"Oh, great. Like what?"

"Nothing bad!" Kyle returned to the bed, and Stan counted the number of buttons Kyle had undone on his dress shirt: three. "All of my stories about being a kid are stories about you," Kyle said. "Well, all but one."

"Hmm?" Stan said. His heart started beating fast; Kyle was avoiding his eyes.

"You know, and in high school, too," Kyle said. He seemed to reach for the tie he wasn't wearing, and tugged at his collar instead. "We were still basically kids, then. With our video games and everything."

Stan wanted to ask what Kyle had meant by 'all but one,' but he decided not to press yet. He scooted back against the bed's thin wooden headboard, propping a pillow behind his back. Kyle stretched out on his side again, the suspender on his exposed hip looking like a strap that needed pulling on.

"Who was this barista guy?" Stan asked. "What was his name?"

"Freddy," Kyle said.

"Wha- like the fucking Nightmare on Elm Street?"

"Shut up!" Kyle said, but he was laughing. "He was really cute, and helped me with a lot of my, you know. Mid-twenties gay angst. I suppose the people you're sleeping with have amazing names?" Kyle tipped his chin up and gave Stan a kind of teasing grin. He'd said _people_ a little pointedly, but seemed to share Stan's unwillingness to push at boundaries this early in the evening. Stan was dying to confess, suddenly, but he also didn't see how he could.

"They have the same name," Stan said, heart still pounding.

"Who- what?" Kyle sat up, wine sloshing in his glass. "You're. Right now, you're seeing more than one person? In South Park? With the same name?" He narrowed his eyes. "You're fucking with me."

"Ah," Stan said. "Ha, well. Never mind."

"Never mind?" Kyle raised his eyebrows. "Stan, um. You know, if you're- No, you're right. Forget it. It's none of my business."

"You called that guy 'dude,'" Stan said, looking down into his wine glass. "That Mac guy."

"Well, yeah. Sorry? Just, it's a term of endearment, you know? I got that from you, from us, when we were kids. Obviously. Stan, look. I want to be friends again."

"Me too," Stan said, still staring at his wine. He didn't want to ruin the evening by admitting to fucking the Kevins; Kyle would be horrified at his taste, and hurt. But if it didn't come out, they couldn't really be friends again.

"I mean, I'm back in Denver," Kyle said. "You're single now, so you probably have more free time. Maybe once a month or so we could have a firmly scheduled get-together in the city."

"A firmly scheduled get-together," Stan repeated. "Once a month." It didn't seem like enough. His whole history with Kyle was all or nothing. They were cuddling each other in Stan's bed or not speaking at all.

"I suppose that's not fair," Kyle said, his voice tightening a little. "Expecting you to always come to Denver. I suppose I need explain, like. Why I feel like I can't breathe here, really."

"Why?" Stan asked, still waiting to hear that it was his fault.

"Ah, god." Kyle rolled off the bed and returned to the wine bottle. He lingered there after pouring a glass, helping himself to some cheese. "Do you want more of this?" he asked.

"Okay," Stan said, though his stomach had tightened. He would eat the cheese because doing so might comfort Kyle into confessing that Stan had hurt him back then, had crushed the air from his lungs that morning in Stan's bed when they didn't kiss. Kissing Kyle still seemed impossible, but in the way that leaping off a building and taking flight was impossible: Stan would love to trust that he could do it, but he was too afraid he'd crash to earth as soon as he tried.

"Here," Kyle said, and he brought two crackers to the bed, one of each kind of cheese spread onto them. Stan didn't know the names of these cheeses by the taste, just that they weren't cheddar, mozzarella, or blue. Mac probably knew, probably ate from Kyle's cheese plates without thanking him all the time. Kyle went to the wooden dresser across from the bed, beside the half-open bathroom door. He put his elbow on it and sighed, tugged at his collar.

"Kyle," Stan said. "I know-"

"No," Kyle said. "You don't, so let me say this before I lose my nerve." He drank from his wine and wiped at his mouth, which was stained slightly from the drink, a little purplish. "Ha," he said. "Wow, here we go. This is so humiliating."

"What?" Stan asked, ready to blurt something about the Kevins, though that would probably only make Kyle feel worse.

"Well." Kyle was picking at the top of the dresser, which was dented with little nicks. "Do you remember, when we were kids, ten years old. Cartman, being Cartman, concocted that whole ridiculous plan to get me to be his slave for a week or so? Though it was indefinitely, as far as I knew."

"Yeah." Stan regretted eating more cheese, his stomach tightening up again. Stan had begged Kyle to tell him why he was letting Cartman call him Fart Boy and humiliate him at school. Kyle had bitten back tears when he sent Stan away, refusing to tell him what was really going on. Stan had been angry, had thought Kyle had forged something real with Cartman that excluded him, like the year before, when Stan's depression gave him its first real trampling and he locked Kyle out in a similar fashion.

"That really fucked me up, dude," Kyle said. He was still picking at the dresser, looking down at his fingers as he worried away more bits of chipped wood. "I mean." He swallowed, shrugged. "I didn't even lose my virginity until I was twenty-five."

"What does that have to do with Cartman?" Stan closed his fist around the comforter on the bed, tensing all over.

"Well, you know." Kyle tried to laugh, but it was mirthless and small. Stan wanted to leap up and go to him, rub his back, something, but he stayed perfectly still, frozen with dread. "He would sit on my face, like. Fart in my mouth, ha ha. That was the joke. He didn't just do it in front of people, though. He did it when it was just me and him, sometimes. And he would miss his- mark, like. I guess I didn't get what was happening, at first. I would just lie there, I would go limp and die inside and just lie there, and that true was for the farts, too. And when he made me say I'd liked it, after. But yeah, he would. I know he was just a kid, alright, I know, and I was never sure he even knew what was he was doing, really, but he would basically, like, rut against my mouth, sometimes, if no one else was there, when I'd opened up for him to fart on me. I mean, with his- he was still wearing clothes."

Kyle glanced at Stan. He'd gone very pale, his hand shaking on the dresser, fingernails tapping against it.

"But," Kyle said, and he looked away again. He cursed when he saw how hard he was trembling and shoved his hand into his pocket, almost spilling the wine he held in his other hand. "But it was bad," Kyle said, his jaw clenched. "It was really bad, for me. Worse than I even realized at the time. I think it got even worse in my memory, just. Knowing that happened to me and that I just lay there and let it happen."

Stan slid off the bed slowly, mustering all the strength he had to keep from pitching the wine glass against the opposite wall. Hearing this, he was ready to accuse Cartman of everything: the murders, the fact that everyone from South Park seemed to be leading a life that had slipped sideways, all the evil in the fucking world. He set the wine glass on the table and turned to Kyle.

"You don't have to tell me that it wasn't actually my fault," Kyle said when Stan walked toward him. "I know that. I've been to therapy, okay, I've dealt with this. Freddy actually helped a lot. He was the first person I ever told."

Stan didn't trust himself to speak yet; he didn't want to say something stupid like 'why didn't you tell me' or 'I'll kill him, you can watch.' He sucked in his breath and let it out like he'd been punched, unable to make his lungs fill wholly with air. Kyle was still at the dresser, staring at Stan's chest, at his badge. Stan eased the wine glass from Kyle's tensed hand and set it on the dresser. He didn't blame Kyle for looking a little furious when he finally met Stan's eyes, waiting to hear what he would say.

There were no words that seemed right, not even 'dude,' so Stan didn't bother with them. He put his hands on Kyle's shoulders, not sure if he would want to be held right now. Kyle was jittery, pressing his lips together and looking up into Stan's eyes, then away, unable to settle his gaze on anything. He made a kind of irritable, exhausted little noise and collapsed against Stan's chest as soon as Stan took another step toward him, Stan's arms circling him and holding him there. Kyle's embrace was tentative at first, but his arms tightened around Stan with every second that passed, Kyle's face still hidden against his shoulder. Eventually, Stan could take full breaths again, and he felt Kyle's chest expanding against his, matching the pace of his exhales.

"Even when I told Freddy," Kyle said, turning his head so he could speak. "I knew he wouldn't hear it like you would. Nobody would understand how bad that had hurt me, nobody but you."

"I'm so sorry," Stan said, putting his face in Kyle's hair. "Fuck, that night at dinner. _Fuck_."

"You didn't know," Kyle said, shaking his head. "It's okay."

"It's not okay. I knew all the other shit he did to you. He's sick. He's a fucking psychopath, and I knew that. Shit, I was just being contrary, acting like a child because Mac was there."

"But you're probably right," Kyle said, lifting his head. He stepped back a little and looked up at Stan. Kyle was blushing now, which was an improvement over paling as if he might vomit. "Just because Cartman is a disgusting sexual predator, that doesn't mean he's a serial killer. I know that. It just hurt to hear you- not defend him, but-"

"Kyle, oh, god, I'm so sorry-"

"No, it hurt mostly because all I could think was, 'Stan doesn't know, he'll never know.' Because I didn't want you- god, back then I think I convinced myself you would kill him if you found out. But I think what really bothered me, why I kept it in until it seemed like it was too late to talk about it, was this inkling that I liked boys, too. Even back then. And I thought I had invited what he did, somehow, by being like him."

"Jesus Christ, Kyle, no-"

"Well, of course I actually didn't! But I was a scared little boy, and. You know. It's strange, because I could be around him after that, and most of the time it was like this episode in my life that had begun and ended, and it was all neatly wrapped up once I was free of being his 'slave.' But then sometimes he would say something, or just look at me in a certain way, and it was like he was reminding me. He'd done that, and I'd let him, and there were no take backs. It was almost _worse_ that he never said anything about it out loud, because then I always had to wonder, was it just me? Am I remembering wrong? Did he never know what he was doing, when he did that? But the thing is, and I guess I uncovered this in therapy, ha, but. I knew, when I was underneath him, after I'd figured out what that stiff feeling was on my fucking mouth, in his pants. Whether or not he knew he was gay or attracted to me or whatever, he knew exactly what he was doing to me, that particular level of degradation, because he never did it in front of the others. If we'd been older, Stan, I think he would have done much worse. Or tried to, and then I always had to wonder, would I have let him?"

"He never tried anything after that?" Stan asked, trying to force himself to breathe normally enough to make his voice halfway steady. Kyle shook his head.

"I made sure not to be alone with him after that. Remember how clingy I got, the year after that happened?"

"I liked it when you clung," Stan said, rubbing Kyle's back. Kyle leaned against his chest again, hugging him hard.

"I felt so fucking bad about it, though," Kyle said. He wiggled in Stan's arms until they unwound, and he moved away, going for his wine glass. "Eventually," Kyle said. "Especially that last summer, when I was always inching a little bit closer. When I finally accepted that you weren't going to turn gay for me, I felt like such a creep. Just like him, like I'd been rubbing on you because I knew you wouldn't shove me away."

"Kyle, no," Stan said, his voice finally breaking. It was a relief, even when his eyes burned. "I loved that. I loved having you that close, like. Couldn't you tell?"

"I thought I could," Kyle said. He tipped his head back, draining his wine glass and showing Stan his bared throat. "But that wasn't your fault," he said, when the wine was gone. "Or maybe it was. I do feel like you led me on, so."

Kyle pushed around Stan's attempt to hug him again, going for the wine. Stan was teetering between blurting out everything and knowing that he shouldn't, because it would be like trying to steal the thunder from Kyle's secret. He watched Kyle pour more wine for both of them, his mouth hanging open stupidly until Kyle brought him his glass. "It's okay," Kyle said, waving his hand through the air. "Hey, look. Having a crush on you was like living on the blade of a knife for about ten years, but you were also the reason I used to think, 'maybe I'm not a huge screw-up. Because Stan likes me.'"

"I loved you," Stan said, hoarsely. He wanted to drain his wine glass, but he was already afraid he might puke.

"Oh, I know," Kyle said. "That's what I meant. We were so close. I'm sorry, I just. Couldn't help how I felt, eventually. And then I was so angry, as if you were straight just to spite me."

"I'm not sure what I was back then," Stan said. "Stunted, mostly. Stupid. Straight, not really. I think you know. You must know, Kyle."

"Well, it's neither here nor there if it was never me you wanted, so." Kyle's eyes were unfocused, his thumb tapping on the stem of his wine glass.

"It's only been for the past year," Stan said, hurrying this out. "Me doing stuff, I mean. With men. Since the divorce. Before that it was just thinking about it, and I thought about you-"

"Don't tell me that!" Kyle pinched his eyes shut, and for a moment Stan was sure he was going to get a glass of wine thrown in his face. "Don't lie to spare my feelings, you could have had me if you'd wanted-"

"It wasn't that simple, Kyle! I was having a hard time, too, and it was like I just woke up in a new body after I quit my meds that year, I didn't trust it. I wanted to stay where we were you and wanted to jump off a cliff, and when I hesitated instead of grabbing your hand you shut me out, you just turned us off like it was easy, like you'd flipped a goddamn switch."

Stan had barely known that was in him and had not expected it to come out like a poison that he'd finally purged, nothing but relief in the saying of it until he'd stopped talking and had to listen to the echo of those words, his own ragged breath. Kyle was staring at him, his mouth hanging open.

"Hesitated?" Kyle said. He licked his purplish lips and jerked his head to the side, as if the sight of Stan had suddenly become a slap in the face. "_Hesitated_? You went out and got that bitch pregnant!"

"And that was all about you, huh?" Stan said, regretting this before he'd even finished saying it. Kyle sniffed and straightened his shoulders. His pink cheeks had turned red.

"Admit it," Kyle said. "Just act like a fucking adult and admit you did that to show me how wrong I was about you."

Stan slammed his wine glass on the dresser and went to Kyle, wanting to tell him he was wrong. He knew Kyle was right, and that he'd known it all along: on Stan's wedding day, all those years they spent apart, and on that morning when Stan wouldn't kiss him. Stan grabbed the wine glass out of Kyle hand and tossed it onto the floor, just short of breaking it. Kyle gasped when angry purple spilled across the carpet, staining it.

"You're paying for that," he said, still glowering when Stan's face was hovering over his.

"I know," Stan said, letting his shoulders sink. "Jesus, dude, you're telling me? I've been paying for how I fucked things up with you for the past eleven years. I know, alright, you told me so, you're right, congratulations, I _know_."

"Asshole," Kyle said, shaking his head. "Too late, you're too fucking late."

He was opening for Stan's kiss even as he said so, and he moaned when Stan grabbed his suspenders and yanked, bringing their hips together. Kyle bucked his hips and bit Stan's bottom lip, hard enough to make Stan hiss and pull back.

"What are you going to do?" Kyle asked. He looked angry but also amused, his hips still flush against Stan's and his blush bleeding down to his throat. "Just because you've been dry humping some townies for the past year, you think you know how to fuck me now? Did you come here in uniform because you think I'm going to get down on my knees and suck your cock while you're still wearing your gun? Ha."

"Kyle," Stan said. He didn't want to do it like this, rough and fast with their defenses up. He touched Kyle's cheek, twisting the suspenders around his other hand and keeping him close. Kyle's eyes were still evasive, something in them flickering even as he held Stan's gaze. He was getting hard; Stan could feel it against the inside of his thigh. Stan's cock had started filling as soon as his hands found the suspenders.

There was a buzzing noise that startled them both, and they turned to see Kyle's cell phone on the table, near the cheese, vibrating across the cheap wood like a robotic mouse. When Kyle moved away from him, Stan's fingers were still tangled in the suspenders at his left hip, and he ended up getting dragged across the room along with Kyle as he went to check his phone, both of them still breathing hard.

"Fuck," Kyle said, and Stan saw Mac's name before he answered. "What?" Kyle said.

"Everything okay?"

Stan was close enough to hear Mac clearly. He huffed and stayed pressed against Kyle, gripping his suspenders, waiting to be pushed away.

"Huh?" Kyle said.

"I heard shouting over there," Mac said. "Walls are thin."

"Oh- jesus, it's fine. I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Yes! Stan was just leaving."

Stan freed his hand when he heard this implicit dismissal, stepping backward and attempting to clear his throat. It felt clogged up, and he wasn't sure he would be able to speak when Kyle hung up and looked at him. They were both still hard, but Stan didn't want to fuck Kyle in earshot of Mac, or at all if it was going to be like this, snarling and small.

"He acts like I'm his little brother," Kyle said. He sniffled and adjusted his pants, slipped the phone into his pocket. "We moved to Denver at the same time, and we didn't know anyone in the city, so. Sometimes a new partner is like a ready-made family."

"Kyle," Stan said. "I'm sorry. God, what am I even- see, this. This is why I got paralyzed, back then. Get anywhere close to kissing me and I turn into this tornado of bad decisions." He'd actually said this to a therapist, once, and he was disgusted with himself anew for repeating it now. "You trusted me tonight, you needed-"

"Don't tell me what I need," Kyle said, and he grabbed his suit jacket from the back of a chair. "I can't handle Mac hearing half of this through the wall." He pulled his jacket on and stepped into his shiny black shoes. "C'mon. Let's go."

"Where?" Stan asked, his erection wilting. The vague proposition of 'going' with Kyle was frightening.

"Take me for a drive," Kyle said. He bent down to blow out the candles, turned off his iPod. "I feel restless. And I don't want to be alone right now, or with anybody but you. _That's_ the South Park that sits on my chest until I can't breathe, you're right. Part of it, anyway. That old 'only Stan will do' feeling."

Kyle was out the door before Stan could take him aside and kiss him tenderly, or whatever the hell he was supposed to do in this situation. He barely remembered to grab his gun belt and boots as he followed Kyle out, and he sat down in the hallway to put the boots on while Kyle locked up. Kyle headed for the parking lot before Stan finished tying the laces, and Stan ran to catch up, afraid to lose sight of him.

"I'm sorry," Stan said again when they were in his squad car, Stan driving and Kyle riding up front, his arms crossed over his chest and his glazed eyes pointed at the windshield. It was late, a weeknight, and there was already almost no one else on the road. Stan didn't know where he was going; he thought of Stark's Pond and almost laughed, but nowhere else seemed right. "Kyle," Stan said. "I should have kept all that in. Now's not the time. Tonight shouldn't have become about me."

"Don't be an idiot," Kyle said. "I didn't actually want the whole evening to be a long hashing out of my childhood trauma. That's what therapy is for. And anyway, it's your birthday."

"Well, yesterday. You know what I mean. I'm having these affairs, you'd hate me if you knew."

"Ugh," Kyle said. "Probably. I keep trying to think of who has the same name. Are they both men?"

"Yeah," Stan said. He wasn't sure they should go down this road, but every turn seemed to be the wrong one, one way or another.

"Oh, fuck," Kyle said, and he gave Stan a look. "The other night, at Bennigan's. The way Kevin Stoley was looking at you- it's not-?

Stan sighed and looked out at the road. Kyle sort of squawked and burst into laughter.

"Are you kidding me?" he said. "Kevin is cheating on Clyde with you? Oh my god, oh my god!"

"It's not funny," Stan said. "I feel really bad about it!"

Kyle howled with laughter, and at first Stan thought he was doing so to conceal some kind of pain, but when he looked over at Kyle he could tell it was sincere, that Kyle was falling all over himself with hilarity at the thought of Stan making a cuckold of old Clyde and his limp banana dick.

"Wait, wait," Kyle said, gasping for breath. "This means, who- _Wait_."

"Yeah, yeah," Stan said. "Laugh it up."

"Kevin _McCormick_? Ew, are you serious? How is he even gay?"

"Well, I don't know, Kyle, how is anyone? The same way that me and you are, I guess. Although I'm actually, you know. Bisexual."

This seemed to take the wind out of Kyle's sails, or maybe the information about Kenny's brother hand. Kyle stared at Stan, frowning.

"I knew that about you," Kyle said. "I could tell, though I guess I wouldn't let myself believe I knew for sure. That's what really killed me when you went after Lola. I couldn't convince myself that you were purely doing it out of internalized homophobia and some twisted need to conform. Part of you wanted that, her. The kids, the wedding, all of it."

"I don't mean to say I regret everything I've done," Stan said. "My kids, god, they're everything, I love them so much. You'd love them, too, if you met them."

"Probably," Kyle said, and Stan was surprised. Kyle shrugged when Stan looked over at him. "They probably have your eyes, or some fucking thing."

They drove for a while in silence, apart from Kyle's tired little sighs. Stan was nowhere near drunk, but it was still weird to be driving this particular car after a few glasses of wine. He wasn't sure what would happen when they got to Stark's Pond, but he would be okay with just sitting quietly with Kyle all night, and he flexed happily in his seat when Kyle reached over to touch his thigh as they passed the Stark's Pond sign.

"This is such an old dream," Kyle said, looking out the window as they pulled around to the far end of the pond, where the gravel road ended. "Coming here with you. In a car, at night, parking."

Stan cut the engine and put his hand over Kyle's on his thigh, then held it. This had been where Wayne was conceived, he was pretty sure, in the backseat of Lola's car. He closed his fingers around Kyle's, not quite wanting to go back in time.

"I wish I had kept all the bad things away from you," Stan said, meaning Cartman.

"I wasn't surprised when you became a cop," Kyle said. "Remember when we made up that game, when you were my knight?"

"Yes." Stan lifted Kyle's hand and kissed his knuckles. Kyle leaned back against the seat and smiled at him. That summer, when they played their elaborate game with all the neighborhood kids, had been the year after Kyle's 'enslavement' to Cartman. Though Kyle hadn't spoken a word about how bad it actually was, Stan had sensed something, maybe, because he'd been obsessed with protecting Kyle once they were reunited. He would lay in his bed late at night or early in the morning, envisioning elaborate scenarios where he saved Kyle, vanquished Cartman.

"Do you love them?" Kyle asked.

"Huh?" Stan thought of his kids, but they'd already covered that. "Who?"

"Kevin. And/or Kevin."

"Oh, god, no, they're just friends. Not even that, in Kevin Stoley's case."

"Just friends," Kyle said. Stan was still kissing his knuckles, carefully, with the respect a loyal knight might show to his king. "Like me, back then," Kyle said.

"No," Stan said. "You were the one I was in love with. That's why I couldn't touch you. I know it's screwed up, but I'm not seventeen anymore."

"Yeah, well," Kyle said. "Neither am I."

Stan let Kyle's hand drop to his thigh again, afraid that this meant Kyle was over it, healed, free of him along with the rest of South Park. Kyle threaded his fingers through Stan's and unfastened his seatbelt.

"Come here," Kyle said, but he was the one who leaned onto Stan until their lips were pressed together. This kiss was different, experimental and soft. Stan could taste the wine on Kyle's tongue when his lips parted and their tongues slid together, and they both laughed when Stan tried to get closer and ended up jerking against his seatbelt, which tightened against his chest as if it was bracing to save him from a crash. He reached for the buckle, but before he could release it his radio crackled with a message from the station operator. His radio had broadcast a few routine calls to the officers on shift since they had gotten in the car, but this one was spoken with a kind of urgency that made Kyle go tense, too.

"Repeat," the officer said. Stan had already started the car, numbed with dread but unwilling to ignore the all units command, even off duty and with red wine on his breath. "We have a 419 in the wooded area behind Skeeter's Bar on Trillby Avenue, being reported as 187, all units report to the scene."

"That's a murder," Stan said when Kyle fell back into his seat and buckled up, nodding.

"I know," Kyle said.

Stan put the sirens on and they peeled away from Stark's Pond. He told himself that it couldn't be Karen McCormick, not really, but the truth was that it could be anyone they knew, anyone in town, which was also still true about the killer.


End file.
